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“Oh, Lucifer, you are so very kind. That was the best 

hug I ever got.” 

(1 iary of a Utah Girl.) — Frontis, 


The Diary of 

A Utah Girl 


BY 

mrs. w. j. McLaughlin 


* > 

n .> i 


BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 

8S5 Broadway , Fork 

BRANCH OFFICES: CHICAGO, WASHINGTON. BALTIMORE. 
ATLANTA. NORFOLK, FLORENCE, ALA. 




Copyright , 1911, 

By 

mrs, w, j. McLaughlin . 



©CI.A2 97588 


DEDICATION. 


I dedicate this volume 
To every living fool . 














THe Diary of A Utah Girl 


Salt Lake City, Utah, July 1, 1901. 

To-day I am miserable, and so I have decided 
to unveil my woe and write it in my diary. I 
have never loved a human being in this broad 
universe. I am going to be famous. I want no- 
toriety. How shall I get it? Were I a man I 
would be famous like the great Brigham Young ! 
I am not a Mormon. I won’t say what I am, but 
I am not a Mormon. I have stood near the tem- 
ple in Salt Lake and gazed with deepest admira- 
tion at the statue of this great man. If Brigham 
Young was living now, I would go to him and 
ask him to show me the famous hug. Ah, and 
he would show it to me, and then I would go out 
in the world and lecture on the famous hug. That 
hug would lead me on to fame. 

Brigham Young would take my little, soft hand 
and lead me into the hall of fame. If another 
man like Brigham Young existed, I would feel 
like joining the Mormons, for then I would have 
a chance of being hugged. 

5 


Cfte Diatp of a Otai) <$ttl 

June 2. 

I was walking out to-day, and I passed the 
Beehive cottage that used to be one of Brigham’s 
homes in the early days of Utah. I like any- 
thing made famous by Brigham Young! Why, 
no man on earth has had more sweethearts than 
this great and good man ! The work of the Mor- 
mons is great. They are daily building up the 
broad universe ; they multiply generously. France 
should have two or three of them to increase its 
population. 

June 3. 

How brightly the sun shines to-day ! It would 
be brighter for me if some good Mormon came 
into my home and gave me a good hug. I would 
think I was in Heaven, where Brigham Young is. 

Certainly Brigham Young was famous! He 
can count more children than any other man, ex- 
cept the real old timers, the very first of our 
world. 

What good arms he must have had, to fold so 
many women lovingly in them! Oh for one 
such embrace! Oh! Brigham Young, let your 
spirit visit me some time, and treat me to one of 
those famous hugs. No man on earth knew how 
to hug like Brigham Young. They couldn’t have 
hugged like he did, else they would have as many 
women to hug, for women are willing to be 
hugged! I am. 

I often dream of Brigham Young! I envy 

6 


Cfte Diatp of a Otaft <0itl 

every one of his wives. They all had a famous 
hug. Will no one hug me as Brigham hugged 
his many wives? 

June 4. 

It is night when I am writing now. I feel the 
gentle presence of handsome Brigham Young. It 
seems he is bending closer to me to give me a 
famous hug. Oh ! Brigham, Brigham, dear, come 
just once in my sleep and press your once rosy 
lips to mine! Fold me in a loving embrace! 
Brigham Young, you are the idol of my life and 
the object of my dreams ! 

June 5. 

When I awoke this morning, I seemed to feel 
some one bending over me. It seemed to me it 
was the spirit of Brigham Young. Think you it 
was ? Or was it only the sighing of the winds as 
they blew into my chamber window, fraught 
with the fragrance of blooming roses? 

The morning is lovely! If Brigham Young 
were here I would give him a good hug. I can 
hug pretty tightly, world, but you see I haven’t 
any good, sweet Mormon to hug, and I wouldn’t 
hug a Gentile. 

June 10. 

It’s raining just horrible, and as I sit at my 
window, gazing vacantly out, one face, one form, 
haunts me. I see in memory only the image of 
Brigham Young. Ah! how strangely that face 

7 


Cfte IDiarp of a (Utaft <Strl 

haunts me! It is because I am longing for one 
of those famous hugs. Is it any wonder, world, 
that so many women fell in love with him ? Is it 
any wonder they fell down on their knees and 
adored him ? And now I adore him. Lucifer and 
Brigham Young, you two departed lovers of mine, 
best beloved of my soul, I love you madly ! You 
are one and the same person in my mind. I love 
you, Lucifer, the King of Hell, because you are 
so fierce and fiery. I love you, Brigham Young, 
because you are the noblest man that ever drew 
breath on earth. You are the father of Utah’s 
most prominent citizens ! 

Citizens of Utah, take care of your arms, ior 
some day I might call on you for one of those 
famous hugs. Especially, Brigham Young’s de- 
scendants, practice carefully each night before re- 
tiring, for I shall call you to my presence some 
day to give you a lesson on the famous hugs of 
your great predecessor, Brigham Young, my idol- 
ized lover ! 

June 11. 

I said yesterday I might call on you for one of 
Brigham’s famous hugs. Well, I meant it, for I 
might, if my terrible love for Brigham does not 
cease. 

Learn to smile pleasantly! Learn how to ca- 
ress gently ! Have in your possession a sweet dis- 
position! Keep yourself neatly clad! I can’t 
bear malodorous feet or breath ! I hate perspira- 
tion also. Well, I won’t call on you this month 

8 


C | )t Dlarp of a 23ta|) <SH'rl 

for a famous hug, lest you might perspire too 
much. June is a warm month, the month of mar- 
riages, but if I were going to be married I should 
wait until December. 

I like a gentle hug, not an ill-smelling one, but 
some Mormons would make you run a mile. 
Laugh at me, world, but it’s true ! 

June 12. 

I dreamed last night that I was married to a 
Mormon. He didn’t know how to hug, and that 
spoiled it all. I was aggravated; he was stupid. 
Twenty-four years old, and didn’t know how to 
hug ! Astonishing ! If I were a man I would 
take lessons in hugging. 

Every woman likes to be hugged. I don’t care 
who she is, and she likes to be hugged often. 

A good hug every night is a good way for sickly 
people to become healthy. If I were sickly I’d 
go to a Mormon and ask him to give me a good 
hug. They are famous for their hugs; they can 
cure sickly women with one hug. They can in- 
deed, and if Albert Ross were a Mormon I’d go to 
him and ask him for a hug. I like Albert Ross. 
He’s a jewel. I like that novel he wrote, entitled 
“Thou Shalt Hot.” 

Albert Ross, Lucifer and Brigham Young, I 
adore you as the Trinity of earth. 

June 13. 

Here is the book, “Thou Shalt Hot.” Well, is 
it not charming, grand, noble, edifying, in the ex- 

9 


©be Diarg of a Otaf) 

treme? It does not say “Thou shalt not hug” in 
this book ! 

If you fail in anything I shall bid you try 
again ; nothing can be made perfect without prac- 
tice. Brigham Young had immense practice be- 
fore he became famous, but, oh, look at the glory 
of his name! He's the one who first introduced 
the “famous hugs.” 

You might wonder why I long for Brigham 
Young in the night. I shall explain that to you. 
If he hugged me in the day it would not seem half 
so sweet. In the darkness of the night everything 
is quiet, and I like to be hugged in the dark, any- 
way. If a nice young man came to me in the day- 
time and asked for a hug, provided he was a Mor- 
mon, I'd tell him these very words: “Come when 
the twilight is folding the flowers and the nightin- 
gale has sung its song.” Men can hug better in 
the night; it’s the time for hugging. So, when 
I am going to get a good hugging, a famous one, 
let it be done in the dark. 

June 16 . 

I don't feel like going out to-day. I think too 
frequently of my adorable lovers. Albert, you are 
so far off ! Why can't you come to cheer my lonely, 
empty life? Life would be one blissful dream 
with you, sweet. Do you ever dream of a little 
Western girl? Do you ever see a small creature 
with dark, sad eyes, fringed with black lashes, a 
round, fair face, and a pretty mouth, not large 
and not too small, with dark brown tresses wav- 


io 


Cfcc Dtacp of a Ota!) <SurI 

ing over a broad brow, and a small form, and two 
small white hands, with the roseleaf touch? Do 
you ever feel the soft pressure of those white 
hands? Do you ever feel the glance of those 
dark, sad eyes? 

I am gifted. My hands show that I am. I am 
a genius, naturally born. I love all famous peo- 
ple. 

If I ever met you, my lover, I shall put my 
arms around you the very first time we are alone 
and kiss you into heaven. 

Last night I got down on my knees and prayed 
for the devil to come to me, and he came quietly 
and gently, and gave me a beautiful hug. 

I kissed him for it. I could feel the terrible 
heat of his lips when he kissed me. I said to him 
gently : “Oh, Lucifer, you are so very kind. That 
was the best hug I ever got. But it is not like the 
hug of Brigham Young. Give me one of his 
famous hugs !” I cried out wildly. 

My love for the devil is deep. I adore him, oh, 
ardently! I hate everything pertaining to re- 
ligion. Brigham Young was religious when a hug 
was in view; his was the natural religion. He 
was religious in the good old-fashioned way. 
That’s what I like, religion that permits those 
famous hugs. A man that can’t hug should never 
marry. 

Ha! ha; ha! He who hugs not is lost, and, 
devil, fierce devil, come to me to-night, when the 
stars are in the sky, and give me a hug like you 


II 


Cfre Diarg of a GJtafj <£>trl 

taught Brigham Young! Come, my love, my 
heart yearns for your coming ! 

June 18. 

I have slept the night through and feel fine. I 
guess the devil must have visited me and given me 
a famous Brigham Young hug. I love to kiss. 
Oh! he is just charmingly sweet, the devil; he is 
my best beau. 

June 19. 

To-day I am sighing. I hate the world and the 
world hates me. I look upon man with hatred. I 
hate all men. They are cruel to women. Women 
love to be hugged, but the men won’t offer to hug 
them. The only men I love are dead. 

I was born here in Salt Lake City. My parents 
were Gentiles and good people; my father was an 
industrious man; my mother a handsome, strong 
woman, who never longed as I do now to experi- 
ence a famous Brigham Young hug. She can’t 
help my longings; she cannot check them. While 
she would be chiding me for one thought, I should 
have ten others in view. I love to think of fa- 
mous hugs. 

Well, I was born here, as I said, but I went up 
to Park City when an infant. My father was a 
miner there; I have four brothers and three sis- 
ters. I love them all dearly ; they are all good ex- 
cept myself. I am good, but I long for a famous 
hug. I can’t help that. Every time I look at 
Brigham’s statue I long for a hug. 


12 


Cf)e Diarp of a 23taf) <S5trl 

June 20. 

My longings are never appeased. Last night I 
wanted to go to an opera, but could not go, be- 
cause I didn’t have the cash. That made me sad. 
I sat by the window until the clock chimed the 
midnight hour. I sat thus, I heard something 
creeping near to me. I jumped up and gazed 
around. I felt the presence of my charming lover, 
Lucifer. 

"You here !” I cried, wondering why he conde- 
scended to visit me. 

"Yes, my darling,” he cried, "I could not stay 
away from you to-night.” 

"Why ?” questioned I. 

"Because you are the sweetest little girl in the 
world,” he said, smiling so charmingly. Yow the 
devil is lovely, but it is his smile that attracts me, 
half mocking and selfish, and again so sweet. Oh, 
devil, I love you with all the powers of my soul ! 

I have often thought if I ever became a writer, 
I should write all about the devil and Brigham 
Young. Some day when my diary is finished I 
shall walk proudly into the hall of fame, and there 
take my seat. I shall be famous for having writ- 
ten about those famous hugs. People will look 
at me and point me out as the girl who wrote 
about Brigham Young, the famous hugger. 

And then I’ll be satisfied, world ; I shall be sat- 
isfied when this ambition is reached! Glory is 
no good after death ! I want to T>e famous before 
I die. And Lucife^ will make me famous, for I 
love him. 


13 


Cfie Diarg of a Altai) <£utl 

July 1. 

I haven’t written anything for a long time. It 
was because I didn’t have any desires to be 
hugged. Well, isn’t that strange? No desire to 
be hugged ! But I have to-day ! Oh, I long to 
be hugged to-day. 

I saw a little dog run past my window to-day, 
and if it didn’t run so fast I might have hugged 
it. 

July 2. 

How warm the day is ! But why should I mur- 
mur when my beloved Lucifer is daily in such 
heat? I shall have to cultivate a liking for such 
heat as this ; no one likes to be roasted while they 
can keep cool. 

Lucifer, I shall try to love the heat, and if I 
fail, forgive me ! 

A Chinaman passed my window this very mo- 
ment. I looked out to see if it was my lover in 
human form, but it was not. 

Chinamen are very handsome in my estima- 
tion. I love to look at and admire their dark 
features and flat noses. 

I would rather be a Chinawoman than a white 
one. I think they are nearer to Satan. 

My, but the heat is intense ! 

July 3. 

Night again ! How fast the fleeting hours roll 
by ! Another day nearer to my tomb. Another 
day nearer to my final rest. Sweet fleeting hours 

14 


Cfie Diatg of a Otaf) <2utl 

on devil’s wings, stay with me longer ; stay ! I 
have been careless about my love affairs. Give me, 
fleeting time, one hour of bliss with the spirit of 
Brigham Young! 

How sweet the moon sheds its rays over the 
world ! I love the moon, the stars, the sun and 
fire. Fire has no terrors for me ! Why should it ? 
He whom I love is in fire all the time. 

I wish the world could love as strongly as I do ; 
it would be happier. 

July 5. 

I am a trifle happier to-day. I got me a new 
hat and gown. I love nice clothes. I nearly go 
frantic over them. I have looked at them twenty 
or more times to-day, and now I am tired. 

My thoughts revert again to my darling Brig- 
ham Young. Somehow I can’t stop writing about 
him. He seems to hold first rank in my heart. 
Too bad he isn’t living now ! I could see him 
once in a while, anyway, and that would suffice 
for me. 

If I could only have been his wife! But fate 
is cruel. It is as cruel as it can be! If fate 
mocks me, I shall mock it back; if it turns against 
me, I shall turn against it. Old fate, you shall 
never kill me ! 

There is no fate. Some great superstitious 
fool came along and wrote that word in a book. 
Another fool came along soon after that one had 
departed. He looked at the word and wept. Fool, 
fool, fool ! 


15 


C&e Dtarg of a Otaft ©id 

He thought he was going to die, because he 
read fate written in a book; there was no more 
substance to that word than there is to my diary. 
Oh ! my diary is true. I didn’t mean to say that ! 
Well, that fool went along the street and told 
6ome one else about his discovery. He said he 
had met his fate. Perhaps he had heart failure, 
and that was the cause of him dopping dead. I 
am not a fool ! I shall never be a fool. I love 
myself too much. I shall never let my life go 
out for want of sense. I’ve got good sense. But 
I’m a fool, fool, fool ! 

July 6. 

Yesterday I said I was a fool. But I’m not a 
fool at all. If any one came to me and told me I 
was a fool, I would strike him. 

I was reading a verse I composed to-day, and 
I laughed heartily over its composition. I laughed 
heartily over it, and I will laugh forever, when I 
may happen to think of it. 

It was comical, such a sentimental piece of lit- 
erature! If I had put it before the world, the 
world would have laughed at my nonsense. 

But, world, you shall never know how it sounds, 
for it has gone into smoke long ago. 

When I write I admire my beautiful hands. 
They are white, small, and shapely ; the palms 
are roseleaf to the touch. Truly it is the hand of 
a gifted woman. 

When I give my hand to any one to shake, I am 
the proudest girl in the world, for I am the pos- 

16 


Cfje Diarp of a Otaft <SHtl 

sessor of two most beautiful hands, and, world, I 
am proud of them. 

No, I am not a fool. Anything but a fool. I 
am a gifted woman, and as such I shall shine out 
brilliantly. I am going to be famous ! 

July 7. 

# I went out to Calder’s Park to-day. Well, the 
sights ! Men who want to hug, go out to Calder’s 
Park, and you can get all the hugs you want. 

Girls are thrown on the grass, their feet ex- 
posed to the gaze of all passersby, and they look 
so immodest ! I wouldn’t have the acquaintance 
of such girls; no, not I? 

It was with astonishment I gazed at them. 
They were all well dressed, and some had very 
nice faces, but if I were a man I wouldn’t hug 
one of them for the world. I should not care to 
hug a girl every man can hug. 

They shocked the girls of good repute. Girls 
who have never spoken a vile word in their lives 
looked abashed in passing them. Who could 
blame them? 

I was glad to get home from the park again. 
In my pretty boudoir I can see nothing like that. 
I may dream if I wish or sit at my window and 
look out at the passing crowds. That would be 
the best. Then I can see Chinamen and dogs, 
cats and humans, all kinds of things, and be as 
interested and more so than if I spent my time in 
the park watching girls’ legs, which I do not care 
to see. 


17 


C&e Diatp of a Otaft ©id 

July 8. 

I was thinking last night, before I retired, that 
I would like to become a nun. What if I would ! 
But to-day I’ve changed my mind. I wouldn’t 
like to bury myself in obscurity forever. And an- 
other thing, I couldn’t reach fame. I want to be 
famous; so I won’t become a nun. I guess they 
would take me, though, because I am too viva- 
cious. 

I love life in the good old way. I love all the 
good things of life, and so I shall love them until 
I die. 

And I’m going to live until I die, too ! 

July 18. 

It’s the eighteenth of July now. And it’s my 
birthday. Goodness! I’ll soon be gray; but I won’t 
be gray, for I’ll dye my hair. I am not going to 
be old; I’ll be young as long as I can. No one 
likes to see old people near them all the time. At 
times they come in handy when there’s a sick per- 
son to attend to. Then they’re precious, loved 
ones. 

I like the old; I venerate and love them. In 
the sunset of their lives they look so very noble 
and grand! 

Why should I give out to the world the 
thoughts my soul contains ? But I am giving them 
out without knowing the reason why. I guess it’s 
because I want fame. Oh, world, if you knew all 

18 


Clje IDtarp of a 0Jta|) ©itl 

you would pity me. If you knew my ardent de- 
sire to be famous, you would pity me. 

Some day I shall look down upon the world 
and scream with delight. That will be when I 
shall be famous. 

July 19. 

The days seem to drag now. Time was when I 
never felt a day passing. I do now. I write sim- 
ply to while away a few moments of monotony. 
Every one has a way of disposing of his time, and 
mine is passed writing my diary. 

World, you will envy me this diary. I have 
friends who will stick up their noses and tell me 
I’m not fit to associate with decent people. I am. 
I am as decent as the most decent. And any one 
who tells me I am not will run the risk of getting 
a pair of shiners. 

A little boy came to my house yesterday. 
I told him a story about a little boy, and it suited 
him to perfection. Suddenly he jumped up and 
said: “Who’s been back-biting me?” It sur- 
prised me not a little, for I expected to see him 
angry. It must have hurt him pretty badly, but 
he went home, cooled off, when he saw I would 
not send him to the bug that bit him. 

The world is full of back-biters. Oh, Lucifer, 
my beloved, deliver me from back-biters ! 

August 10. 

For a long time I have devoted myself to study. 
I have not written any of my diary. 

19 


Cbe Dtarp of a fatal) ©trl 

To-day I took a fancy to write it, and now I 
shall tell you a little about my new novel. I am 
writing a novel; what shall I name it? I don’t 
know. It’s rarely sad and pathetic. It grieves 
me to write it. I am portraying the lives of other 
people. I said if I ever wrote a book I would 
write about Brigham Young and Lucifer. 

Well, I shall write of them, too, for I positively 
adore them ! 

When this book, which I have now begun, has 
been put before the world I shall then write of 
my darlings. I like the cast of characters I have 
in my new novel. I think they will take well. 
They are original. Read this story and you shall 
be convinced of niy genius. 

Later on I shall tell you of my novel’s title, 
and what it’s about, and if you don’t weep there 
is no sap in your eyes. 

August 11. 

I couldn’t write anything in my book to-day, 
so I turn impatiently to my bad diary. It is a bad 
diary, is it not? I think it is equal to any bad 
book on the market. Yo religious book will ever 
make one famous. The reading public likes to 
read of famous Mormon hugs. Dear me, if I 
could only get a Mormon hug! Brigham, when 
I dreamed of you last night, my heart was palpi- 
tating. I felt your lips pressed against mine. 
Your arms were around my neck, and oh, the 
bliss and happiness of it all! 

I shall never have such a blissful dream again. 

20 


C&e Diatg of a Otaf) <£ncl 

I love Brigham with all my heart and soul. If 
time could be brought back and lived over, I 
should have a Brigham Young hug. Oh! yes! 
one Brigham Young hug would make me famous, 
and I want fame and glory. 

If I ever become famous, it will be Brigham 
Young w'ho will make me famous. Only for my 
love for him this diary would never have been 
written. I want the world to know I love him! 
I want to be famous and the love of Brigham 
Young will certainly bring me fame. 

And if it does, I shall get down on my knees 
and thank the famous hugger for my fame. 

August 12. 

I have this day abandoned the idea of writing 
a novel. I think it would be best to make love 
to the devil ; that will be more interesting for me. 
Oh, devil, I love you madly and passionately! 
Come to me in the blackness of the night, put 
your loving hot arms around me and tell me that 
my love is reciprocated ! 

If you do, oh fierce lover, I shall be content. 
Bring with you the prince of princes, the famous 
hugger, Brigham Young! 

I cry out in the night for the devil. Some- 
times I fancy I see the form of the devil, and 
then, oh, my joy is complete. His fiery form 
lights up my room. I gaze at him in wonder 
and awe. He is so unlike other men whom I 
daily come in contact with. He is superior to 
them. Oh, devil, kind devil, fierce devil, I envy 

21 


Cf )t Diatp of a (Htaf) <©ftl 

your wife ! Make me your wife, fierce devil, and 
I shall be content. 

If money could purchase your love, my darling 
Lucifer, I could not have you, for money I have 
none. If I cannot win you by my winning ways, 
I must droop and die, longing for a love that can 
never be mine. 

August 13. 

The day looks so cloudy. I am afraid it is go- 
ing to rain. I hate cloudy weather. I don’t like 
to see it storm. But if it does rain, I cannot help 
it. I will amuse myself making fun of the devil. 
Making fun of him I said. I meant to make love 
to him. He don’t like people who laugh at him, 
and they don’t like him. I don’t blame him at 
all, either. I am the same. Any one who makes 
fun of my diary, though bad it is, I shall abhor. 

It is not every one who can write so lovely. I 
can write anything you ask me to write, and it 
don’t make me feel ignorant if it is not accepted 
either. 

I am proud of my genius. I am proud of lov- 
ing Brigham Young. I am proud of loving the 
devil. 

Go on, old world, with your laughter and jeers ! 
Priests, ministers, monks and nuns love their dol- 
lars, and so do I. They want a great name in 
Heaven, and I crave one on earth. I want to 
make a name for myself while I’m alive, for I 
know I’ll never see daylight again. Ho matter 


22 


C ijc Diarp of a Ota!) <S5ttl 

what the preachers say, I never shall see daylight 
again. 

Oh, world, you can laugh at my diary, if you 
please! Laugh and jeer at it, if you wish, for I 
can laugh at you some day. Men who delight in 
such stories, laugh at me if you please, but do not 
try to cultivate my genius. You cannot. It is 
of a peculiar order. I can turn from this bad 
diary and write the sweetest story you ever read. 
I can. Some day you will agree with me that I 
can do just as I say. Out in the literary world I 
shall have a mixture of literature, bad and good. 
What will the world call me then? The people 
will say: “Come, little maiden from Utah, and 
take your stand; you are worthy of a seat in the 
hall of fame!” 

And I shall come. Proudly I shall take my 
seat, and gaze in wonder about me. Oh, joy, joy, 
for the Western maiden who aspires to be a little 
something in the reading world ! 

If my mother knew I was writing this manu- 
script, she would steal it and burn it, but ere she 
will find it out many eyes shall have scanned its 
pages, and my heart shall be satisfied, for I shall 
have put my diary before the world. 

If the world don’t rejoice, surely the devil will. 

If you don’t like my work, old world, I shall 
curse you until time shall be no more. 

August 14. 

Life seems a puzzle to me to-day. I was won- 

23 


Cjje sDtarp of a fHtaf) ©itl 

dering if there is such a thing as love. Is it only 
a liking of two souls for each other, or is it love ? 

If love exists it is the run of the world. To 
live without love one must be an animal, and yet 
a mother animal of any kind loves her young, and 
so love is predominant in the animals as well as 
the human beings. 

How sadly strange this world would seem if 
love did not exist ! 

Marriage is hateful to me. I don’t see any 
sense in marriage. It seems too funny to be sol- 
emnized. Two young people meet, they love. 
That love becomes great; they must marry and 
live as one. Man and woman were created for 
each other. 

When they marry, a minister speaks a few 
words over the couple and asks them if they are 
willing to join in holy wedlock, etc., and they 
settle down to home life. That woman must be a 
slave. She must cook, mend, and Heaven only 
knows what. That woman’s life is a hell on earth. 
Not as good as hell, either! 

She does not realize her surroundings until she 
is overburdened with poor little children. Per- 
haps her means will not permit her to send them 
to school until they are too old to like study and 
they grow up idiots. 

If a woman wants to get hugged let her get 
hugged, but don’t marry, unless you are fair of 
face and form, and then you are apt to marry a 
man of wealth who can keep you in luxury. 

Marry for love and work for riches, is an old 

24 


Cfte Dfarp of a Otaf) <£>fri 

proverb, but I say: Marry when you see wealth 
m sight and not before ! 

August 15. 

The world has by this adjudged me a maniac, 
but it is wrong. I am not a maniac. I have never 
been crazy yet, and suppose I never shall. Every 
one who possesses any genius is crazv. That’s 
what the world says. 

I shall stand for my rights wherever I go. I 
have a love story in my biography no other author 
has, and that is love of the devil. 

You might laugh at me and call me a fool, but 
if you do, I shall write another diary worse than 
this one, and laugh still more at you ! 

What do I care for the world ? It can criticise 
this diary to perfection, but that is all. It can- 
not stop the sale, my triumph ! 

August 16. 

The world will laugh at my genius. I am ex- 
pecting that, but laugh, world, laugh while you 
will ! I was reading a famous book this after- 
noon, written by a famous novelist. I like it, but 
don’t care to read it too carefully, lest it convert 
me, and at the present time I don’t want to be 
converted. I’m good. I love the devil and he 
loves me. 

I wonder if there is such another girl in the 
world like me. Surely not, and if there was I 
would like to kill her, for she might steal the 
heart of my fierce lover. 

25 


Cfje Diarp of a Otaf) 

The lover I call my very own is mild and gen- 
tle to me. He pets me lovingly on the face when 
I dream of him. 

His eyes are mean and cruel when they look 
at faces of others, but when he looks at me they 
soften, and in that tender expression I read love, 
ardent love! There is no love like the devil’s. 
He can suit you on earth and in hell. All sin- 
ners turn to Satan. If you’re bound for hell, 
and you know it, give him all the love you can 
spare. 

Go where the largest crowd goes, join the merry 
throng! That’s what I’m going to do. I like to 
be in crowds. 

Every living soul w r ho reads this book which I 
have written will yell out : “That girl is damned. 
She will certainly belong to the devil, for he 
tempted her to write this book. She is horrible !” 
I won’t be angry with those people. 

I can suffer for those I love deeply. And devil, 
fierce devil, I love you! 

August 17. 

The sky above hangs thick with heavy clouds; 
they look pretty heavy and fat. 

When you see a fat woman you can usually 
judge her weight; at least, I am gifted in this 
way. 

I am a gifted woman in every way. I would 
make a better man than I do a woman. I would 
make love to the Mormons, and tell them when I 

26 


Cfte Diarg of a Otaft <5irl 

hugged them, "This is a famous Brigham Young 

Why wasn’t I born a man? Why, oh, why? 

I might just as well ask the wall why it was 
built. Yo response to my questions. But my 
lover hears. Hark ! What do I hear in the still- 
ness? Is it his voice speaking to me? 

"Were you a man I could not love you, dear- 
est, but you are a sweet little girl. Yes, a charm- 
ing little girl and my adored one.” 

Ah ! that was his voice. It displeases him to 
have me speak like I have just spoken. I shall 
offend him no more. I am glad I was born a 
little girl. Yes, glad because it pleases him. I 
wish I could write the devil a love letter ! I won- 
der if I could? What should I say to him? I 
believe I’ll try. 

Mr. Lucifer, Hell City, Eternity. 

Dearest Sweetheart What pleasure there is in 
my writing to you ! You are no doubt having a 
great time keeping a list of the names of your 
new arrivals, but be kind to them, sweetheart, 
and don’t use your fork. And above all other 
things, don’t fall in love with any of the lady 
arrivals. I should go mad if you did! I am so 
lonely to-day. How I long for your gentle pres- 
ence ! 

I am grumbling about the heat every day, but 
when I think of the heat you must needs endure, 

I cease my moanings and think of my rosy-cheeked 
sweetheart. 


27 


Cl )e Dlatg of a Ota6 <$lrl 

I would envy yon to another darling. I could 
not spare you ! Nay, I should go mad if I saw 
you favor another one. 

As long as I can have your love, darling, I 
shall crave no other. For none other can equal 
yours. You can hug me as gently as Brigham 
Young, can’t you, dearest? 

Oh, devil, I forgot to tell you how glad I am 
for having been born a woman. Oh ! I am so 
happy because you love me, and I love you equally 
as well. 

Now, my darling, bye, bye, and I won’t expect a 
reply, knowing how busy you are. 

Lovingly yours, 

H. 

How shall I send this missive? The road to 
Hell City is an unknown one ; those who pass that 
road never return to tell the passage thither. 

How shall I send it? Oh, my ardent wooer, 
come to me, and let me read this charming letter 
I have written you ! Listen and I shall read it 
when the stars are in the sky, and darkness en- 
velops the earth. 

Oh, devil, I adore you with the most profound 
admiration ! 

August 18 . 

Last night I went to my room, to await your 
coming, devil. Yes, world, I awaited his coming, 
but he came not, and, oh, how sadly disappointed 

28 


CJ )t Diatg of a Otal) <£>irl 

I was ! I missed that gentle presence, oh, so much ! 
I couldn’t read my love letter to him. 

August 19. 

I got a scolding to-day for writing too much. 
The doctors and fortune tellers think it will im- 
pair my health. All they know about it ! Heav- 
ens! They can’t tell how your health is, until 
they find out where your pains and aches are, and 
can’t you tell them lots of lies ! I wouldn’t marry 
a doctor for anything. I’d sooner marry a Mor- 
mon. A doctor can’t give you such lovely, strong 
hugs. As a rule they are delicate of body, and 
their health is not excellent. I like a good strong 
Mormon to hug me, or the devil. 

August 25. 

Well, my dear Brigham Young has been to all 
intents sadly disappointed, I mean neglected. I 
have been so taken up with my fiery lover that I 
forgot him for a while. I forgot him, I said. But 
you may rest assured, dear world, I haven’t for- 
gotten to long for a famous hug. I want the hug 
yet. 

Any time a good fat Mormon comes to me and 
tells me he would like to hug me, I shall put my 
little arms around his neck, and cry out: “Hug 
me strongly and fiercely !” And again I can hear 
the world laughing. Well, laugh for all I care ! 
I am going out to-day, and while I am gone I 
might be able to get a good hug. I want a good 

29 


Cftc Dtarp of a £Jta& <25itl 

hug ! I do ! I do ! I do ! And call me a fool if 
you want to; I am a fool, fool , fool ! 

March 1, 1902, Victor, Colo. 

During the months I have spent in not writ- 
ing I have traveled. February I went to Buffalo 
for a sacred purpose. I went to be a nun. Just 
laugh, old world ; I did go to be a nun. The devil 
frightened me out of this, and I left there and 
came on to Victor again. I am in Victor now, 
and I am very happy. Here I court the devil 
daily. I have a sister living here. She wants me 
to hasten home, so she won’t have so much cook- 
ing to do, but I’m going to stay as long as I can. 

Well, there are more hills here to climb ! I 
never saw such a place in my life, but I like it 
well enough, not because I have to like it, but be- 
cause I want to be agreeable once in a while. 

I am never so happy as when I am in the pres- 
ence of this charming devil. I have again taken 
up the idea of writing a book. It seems it’s my 
destiny. I am going to write one for sure this 
time. Just as sure I shall complete my diary. I 
began it last night. It begins : “In a pretty lit- 
tle cottage on Washington Street, a beautiful 
woman and her daughter of seventeen summers 
dwell,” and it goes on like that. 

I shall tell you more about that novel when I 
advance further on. I don’t think it will read 
like I intended it to read, but, oh, world, it will 
surprise, you. You will look at its pages and 
wonder if I really did write it. 

30 


C&e Diarg of a dtai) <Snd 

It will never bring me the fame I crave. Never, 
never, never ! So I shall put this diary before 
the world, and damn it if it doesn’t bring me 
fame ! 

March 19. 

How nicely I am progressing with my new 
novel ! Sometimes I sit up all night to write. The 
night is the best time to write. Since I have be- 
gun to write I do not court the devil or long for 
a famous hug. This book has taken up my at- 
tention. Now, if the world won’t admit I’m an 
angel when they read my novel, it will be a liar. 
Some old cronies of women will say, “It’s a mighty 
good thing for her !” 

March 20. 

How sweet and brilliant my diary sounds! It 
is as soft and clear as the flow of a grand old 
river. Beauty has a prominent place in this first 
novel of mine, and religion comes next. I am get- 
ting religious now. What a change it is for me 
to sit and write of love and purity, when I used 
to be so wicked. But I was only wicked in the 
good old-fashioned way, that was all. 

My book goes on to tell of how a lovely young 
girl, poor in means, fell in love with her father, 
whom she had never seen in her lifetime, which 
was very short. 

And then it goes on to tell how she was going 
to become his wife. When one night they were 

31 


Cfte Diatp of a Otaij <5itl 

planning to escape, her mother followed and in a 
quarrel with her husband she had not seen for 
years shot him, and he of course fell almost dead. 
He wasn’t dead, but nearly. Then Detta bent 
over him and cried out something foolish for him 
to come back to her, or something like that. 

Anyway, I wouldn’t have said it. 

A stranger strolls along then and asks her some 
question. Then she begs of him to help her with 
her father. And thus it goes on. It will be very 
religious before it closes, I can see that now. 

It will never make me famous; never, never, 
never! My diary must appear which tells of fa- 
mous hugs, and then, oh, then my fame ! 

God love you, darling Brigham; I shall soon 
leave this book and make love to you ! 

March 21. 

My sister seems cooler to me now. She would 
like to get rid of me, but I won’t go until I want 
to. Married sisters are funny, anyway. They 
think you are no good if you are not married and 
settled down. Well, I guess she is right, too. 

Anyway, I’m some good. I love the devil, and 
I am a genius of a peculiar order. Disorder, 
maybe, eh? Other authors will look at my book, 
especially this diary, and say, “She’s no good.” 
But I am some good ! I am as good as any other 
woman in the world. I am a genius. I long for 
a good famous hug, what no other author has 
longed for, and some day — my triumph ! 

32 



Well, that dream was a fine one. I felt those warm and 
loving arms embracing me and I wept for the joy that 
filled my heart. 

(Diary of a Utah Girl.) — P. 33. 





















rp 




































































Cfje SDiarg of a Otai) <55itl 

March 22. 

A funny dream I had last night. I am going to 
write it in my diary this very afternoon so the 
world can know it. 

I was in hell with my darling sweetheart, Luci- 
fer. The mansion in which he dwells with all his 
servants was paved of brimstone, paved I said. I 
mean built. 

It was so many stories high that to reach the 
top would be an impossibility. I couldn’t reach 
the top if I wanted to. But of course I was not 
worrying over that. My sweetheart was in the 
bottom of this mansion, and I was content with 
him. 

Wherever true love exists there is happiness. 
If Lucifer said to me, “Come in this fire and burn 
with me,” I would take him by the hand and em 
ter the glorious fire. But if I was married and 
my spouse said to me, “Little wife, I am going to 
commit suicide and I want you to do likewise, 
and suffer with me,” I should tell that man to go 
to hell, whither he was bound ! 

Certainly I would not commit suicide 1 I 
wouldn’t, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t! 

No one but fools commit suicide, and as I said 
before I am no fool. 

Whoever calls me a fool lies. 

Well, that dream was a fine one. I felt those 
warm and loving arms embracing me, and I wept 
for the joy that filled my heart. He told me that 
he loved me. When I was born he watched me 


33 


Cf )t Diatg of a (Ktalj ©frl 

■with delight! I was his idol from the very day 
I put myself into this world, I mean since I was 
put here. 

He thought I was so sweet, not pretty, but pos- 
sessing great genius. I am a natural born genius, 
and Lucifer knows it. This gift he gave me be- 
cause he loves me. He told me last night in my 
dream that he loved me, and I know he does; he 
told me I would be famous, and I will be. 

Take my tongue out, world, if you want to — it 
would not make a very delicious dish, for it is 
bitter with lies — but I shall then talk with my 
hands. I shall write on the same as ever. Take 
my right hand off, I shall scream until the whole 
world hears me. You cannot down me; I will not 
be downed. If you throw me down I shall pick 
myself up again. 

I belong to the grandest of men, the devil ! 
March 30. 

I am an authoress now. My book is finished, 
not quite, but nearly. In a few more days it will 
be done, and then it shall go out to the world. A 
lot of fools will set their opinion on it. Well, let 
them; I do not care at all. It’s a good thing the 
book has no ears, no sense to feel the criticisms on 
it. I am glad for its sake. 

Nothing in that book about my darlings. I 
wouldn't mix the precious things with religion. 
Why, it would just shame them. I like to read my 
new novel. It's so solemn and sad that I won- 


34 


Clje Dtarg of a eitaf) <S5itl 

der how the world will act when it comes before 
its eyes. 

Damn the world if it criticises that book ! 
t Oh • it’s my diary they’ll abhor. An immoral 
diary by a western girl. But it can’t burn my 
diary. People will read it and like it. I like it. 
I love it where it tells about those famous hugs. 
I laugh over them so often, and I can laugh 
heartily. Naturally, I am jolly. Nothing tickles 
me, though, but a good hug from a Mormon. 

And that tickles me. A good hug from a Mor- 
mon. 

March 31. 

My sister just brought in a paper from Butte. 
It was sent to her by a friend. And what do you 
think I saw? My other half. As sure as I’m 
living I saw my other half ! And do you want to 
know what that other half is? A girl who loves 
the devil just like I do. 

She has put a book before the world, dealing 
with her love for the devil. She loves him ! Does 
he love her in return? I am going mad. Does 
he give part of his affection to Mary MacLane? 
She shall not have it ! I feel I could kill her. 
Why did she get ahead of me? Will she have 
fame? Mary MacLane, you cannot love the devil 
like I do ! It is impossible. You wrote that book 
just for fame, didn’t you, little Mary? 

You cannot have the affection of my darling 
Lucifer! No, anything but that. Lucifer never 
loved her like he does me. And she never loved 

35 


Cfje Di'arp of a 2Jta& <Surl 

him so devotedly as I do ! She got ahead of me. 
Will her fame be greater than mine? Will she 
enter the hall of fame while I stand outside and 
can’t even peep in? 

I envy you, Mary MacLane. You have stolen 
my lover ! 

But you cannot have his love. My diary will be 
more interesting than yours. 

Some day, little Mary, you and I shall meet in 
the hall of fame. 

But you will not be so high as I shall be, for I 
shall have had a famous Brigham Young hug to 
strengthen me. A Mormon wouldn’t hug Mary — 
and why ? Because she wouldn’t let him. 

April 8. 

Here on my desk lies the story of Mary Mac- 
Lane. I’ve read it carefully. It’s very interest- 
ing in the extreme. I like this little girl some- 
how. She has great will power. She says her 
parents never tried to please her when she was a 
child. Little forsaken one of Butte, you have my 
sympathy and my love. Your genius is also of 
a peculiar order. You are lonely, and I believe 
you don’t know what to do. You crave fame and 
glory. You tell us in your story your body is 
fine, your liver the best in the world, your face 
has a Madonna-like expression, and that you 
sometimes think you are very beautiful. You are 
vain, I can see that from this story you have writ- 
ten. You have told us you pad your bust so you 
will look well. Well, Mary, do not do that. A 

36 


C&e Dtarg of a Otaft <Sirl 

little massaging will give you your natural plump- 
ness, and your hips will develop as you grow older. 
Discard those nine cambric handkerchiefs and do 
as I say. If Mary reads this she will think I am 
a good adviser, but I am many years her junior. 
If Mary MacLane is beautiful, I am not. If she 
has a lovely form, I have not. My hips are not 
beautifully turned. I do not boast of great per- 
sonal beauty, for I have none. I am a plain little 
girl, eighteen years old! All I can boast of is 
my youth, and my genius. Mary MacLane loves 
the devil. I am astonished ! I thought there was 
not another girl like myself. But this girl equals 
m@ in genius, surpasses me in personal beauty, 
and perhaps she has more intellectual power. She 
has different desires than mine, too. 

I want to be hugged lovingly ; Mary wants some 
good, strong, vicious man to come along and lead 
her to her ruin. She doesn’t consider this her ruin, 
but a new lease of life. Well, Mary, it might give 
you another life, but it could not prolong your 
existence. 

Another life might be generated from this 
great failure, but your life could not be prolonged. 
I am not that bad. My diary sounds wicked, but 
it is more wicked than myself. 

I should like the devil to make me his wife, but' 
that is not very bad, after all. 

I’d be his wife and he’d be my husband. 

I like little Mary MacLane, and if the day ever 
dawns when I can speak with her, I shall be de- 

37 


C ! )t Diarg of a Ota!) 

lighted to do so, and shall eagerly grasp the op- 
portunity. 

And I shall scream to the top of my voice if she 
tells me the devil loves her! 

April 9. 

I went uptown to-day, looking at the new spring 
bonnets. I didn’t like any of them, so did not 
make a purchase. I was with a girl friend. Com- 
ing down the stairs, I tripped and fell headlong 
down the remaining few. It didn’t hurt any, 
though. I think it does one good to take a tum- 
ble once in a while. 

A few men standing outside heard me fall, and 
came nearer to the building to see what hap- 
pened. I was up and started out when they saw 
me. 

That wasn’t the first fall I got, and it shall not 
be the last one either. 

There are some folks when they read this who 
will wish that I did get my head broken, but I 
didn’t, though. 

My book was finished last night. Now, for 
sure, I am an authoress. 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! I am a great writer. Good 
old Satan, you have made me what I am, and I 
shall repay you by loving you forever and for aye. 

April 10. 

I am writing a letter home. I don’t like to 
write home at all; it makes me get the blues so 

38 


C&e Diatg of a C3taf) <£url 

bad ! I wonder if every one gets the blues ? It’s 
a pretty bad disease. 

When I have done writing in my diary I shall 
finish my letter and send it. We have a red- 
headed mail carrier here on Second Street. Poor 
fellow, he always looks so shy. 

If he didn’t have red hair I would never notice 
him. But he reminds me of my darling beau. I 
think I shall go home soon; I don’t like to be 
where I am not wanted. 

My sister says she likes me to stay with her, 
but some day she’ll tell mama how tired she was 
of me. Damn her, anyway, if she does ! 

July 29. 

My diary becomes so neglected. I have had the 
pleasure of talking with a nice fat Mormon boy 
here in Victor. He came for the purpose of con- 
verting my sister and me. 

Well, he was quite nice looking, but mushy. 
But he was so earnest about his religion I really 
admired him. I should have asked him to hug 
me if my sister wasn’t there. 

July 30. 

I am going to go home the coming month ; then 
I shall fold my darling mother in a loving em- 
brace 

If she knew I was writing this book, she would 
laugh at me. She would steal it and burn it, 
and my fame would be gone forever. 

I want this diary to be published. It will be 

39 


CJ )t Diatp of a Of aft (Sicl 

published, too, no matter how long I must wait. 
I have one sister who would almost tear her hair 
if she knew I was writing this book. Let her 
tear her hair if she wants to. That will not cause 
me any pain. 

If Mary MacLane wants to get a new lease of 
life, that is no reason why I should do likewise. 
And I won’t, not until I can have a famous Brig- 
ham Young hug, anyway. 

August 10. 

To-morrow I leave for Denver ; I am glad, too. 
I cannot court the devil like I could in Utah. 
There are few Mormons here. In the dear little 
State of Utah there are saints to be had by the 
score. They are saints, not devils. I am a devil. 
I am not a Latter-day Saint. I’m going to be a 
first day saint. That’s better. 

My, I do like to admire my lovely hands. They 
are fit for a princess. I wish my face was as 
lovely as my rose-leafed hand. My hair is beauti- 
ful, too. I have an abundance of lovely hair. It 
is a rare brown, and I always wear it plain. I am 
proud of my hands and hair. 

My hands are too delicate to work hard. They 
are beautiful, and I won’t spoil them for any one. 
They are so shapely. The fingers are slender and 
tapering beautifully. My hand is not large. It is 
small, and the skin is very fine and white. The 
palms are so beautiful that one cannot help ad- 
miring them. They are soft and lovely and my 
very own. My hand is the loveliest hand any au- 

40 


Cfte Diarg of a dtaft <Strl 

thor ever possessed; and yet it is the hand of a 
devil. 

Out in the far west there is a little devil , lovely 
of brain, has beautiful hands ; she adores them, she 
loves her spouse the handsome devil, she thinks he 
loves her, equally as well, and she is as sweet as 
she can be ! 

I am sweet ! Whoever said I was not sweet 
lies ! 

August 11. 

To-night I start for Denver, and in a couple of 
weeks I shall return home. The devil will be 
my companion on the way; I shall look for him 
everywhere. 

A man has not enough lips to kiss. Kiss a man 
and you are apt to kiss his teeth. And, gee! I 
don’t want to kiss a man’s old teeth. I want to 
kiss something good when I kiss. 

What good does a kiss do, anyway? It is all 
nonsense. People part, and when they meet again, 
they give each other a good kiss. What good 
does that do one? Spitting into each other’s 
mouths, I call it. Call me a maniac if you will, 
but I am not. I don’t believe in kissing. I think 
a good hug is worth all the kissing in the world. 

That one hug I shall get some day. And the 
devil of Utah will be converted into a saint. Ha ! 
ha! ha! a saint? Never, never, never! While there 
is a hell open and a devil there I shall never be a 
saint. And a saint I don’t want to be! 


4i 


Cfie Diarg of a SJtalj <2url 

August 12. 

I brought my diary on the train with me, so 
if I thought of writing I could do so. I am glad 
I brought the diary, for it gives me something to 
do. There is a young man in the train and he 
has sugar feet. You understand why that is so. I 
shall not venture to explain, lest you might call 
me a fool again. 

I had to move from one end of the car to the 
other. I couldn’t stand over where he was sit- 
ting, so I moved down in the other end. He must 
have had sugar feet for years, for they are quite 
strong at this writing. 

I should like to know if he has a wife. If he 
has I pity her. I had a thrilling experience with 
a woman, too, that had delightfully sweet breath. 
I should like her to will me her breath when she 
expires. Some day when she dies I shall dig up 
her body to inquire of the medical students what 
made her breath so charmingly sweet. 

I could surely hug a Mormon if I had that 
breath. But, oh, kind devil, you made my breath 
so sweet ! so sweet ! so sweet ! so sweet ! 

I am tired now of writing, so I am going to 
sleep for a while. I hope when I wake up the 
man with those sweet feet will be gone out of our 
car. 

August 13, Denver. 

This morning I got a swell ride in a hack. My, 
we must have appeared like ladies ! We went to a 
convent to stay, but they starved us out. They 

42 


€|)e Diarg of a Otaft ©irl 

gave us only a bit of hard tack, and my sister 
said we must go elsewhere to eat and sleep. 

So we left that convent and went in search of 
other lodgings. We saw an expressman on a cor- 
ner going to sleep in want of something to do. 
So we hired him. We rode from one end of Den- 
ver to the other, sitting with the expressman un- 
der the pink awning. 

We must have looked like farmers; we didn’t 
care what we looked like. 

We had the ride, that was all we wanted. 

We found a place at the Paloma Hotel, and 
there we stopped during the remainder of our 
stay. I liked Denver very much. It is far pret- 
tier than Salt Lake. 

And one thing there are no Latter-day Saints to 
be had in the city, so one must get along with- 
out those splendid hugs, famous hugs ! 

August 22. 

To-night I leave for my dear home. How 
happy I am! An hour more and I shall go to 
the train. I am glad, too. I can dream more 
pleasantly there, in my native land. I love the 
State of Utah I love it because my darling Brig- 
ham Young lived and died there. May you rest 
in peace, my darling Brigham, and may your de- 
scendants learn the famous hug. The hug you 
so often gave your fortunate wives, the only 
women on earth I envy. Damn you, wives of 
Brigham Young; I hate you because I love him 
who adored you ! 

43 


t 


Cfte Diarg of a Otal) <S>irl 

September 1. 

Every day, nearly, I get a scolding because I 
traveled too much and spent too much money. 
Well, if they didn’t give me the money to travel 
on, I couldn’t travel. 

I don’t care, anyway, for scoldings. It goes 
in one ear and out the other. 

Damn every one who scolds me. I am a devil, 
I know that, but no one has any right to tell me 
that when I am so good as to own up to it. My 
sister used to call me “a damn little witch!” 
I am not a witch, but a sweet little devil. She 
tells me I have lost the grandest opportunities. 
Well, I can’t find them again, so what’s the good 
in moaning? 

I’m going to laugh until I die. If any one be- 
gins to scold me I shall laugh. If they taunt me 
I shall taunt back. If they tell me I am a fool, 
I shall tell them they are greater fools than I. 

Why, a genius cannot be a fool ! They have 
lovely brains; they must look delicious. If I 
ever get the chance to get the brains of an au- 
thor, I shall eat them, and relish them, too. 

September 2. 

My sister doesn’t like the idea of my becoming 
an authoress. Ha ! ha ! but she is not me. I am 
wild, “a crazy maniac,” some tell me. But I’m 
a sensible one if I’m anything. 

I don’t like Park City. If I could steal the 
money to run away, I certainly would. But I 

44 





Last night in my dreams, I heard a noise around my bed. 
I looked up. I saw in the thick shadows a form I am 
familiar with. I called him, “Lucifer, Lucifer!” 


(Diary of a Utah Girl.) — P. 45. 


























Cfre SMarp of a (Ktaf) <®irl 

cannot steal it, and so I must rest my brain, else 
some one will want to be scrambling them, when 
my dear little heart shall cease beating. 

I hate every friend I know. I despise them. 
Every one I meet stops me and cries: “When 
did you come back?” 

And I tell them. 

“Why, I thought you left here for good !” 
September 3. 

Park City is no good. The devil don’t like 
this place, therefore how can I like it? Last 
night in my dreams, I heard a noise around my 
bed. I looked up. I saw in the thick shadows 
a form I am familiar with. I called to him, 
“Lucifer, Lucifer !” 

“I hear you, my love. I am here. Tell me the 
sorrows of your heart and let me share your pain. 
Let me share every agony of thine.” 

And I sat up in bed. This was the first visit 
he had made since the time of Mary MacLane ! 

“Oh, Lucifer,” I cried ; “I am in terrible agony. 
Tell me truthfully, darling, do you love Mary 
MacLane ?” 

“Love Mary MacLane !” he cried out in a fiery, 
hoarse voice. “I love no one but you. Sweet, 
you are my darling. Why should I love her ? She 
is nothing to me. I love you, and you are the 
only one I love on earth. So shall I love you 
until death!” 

“Oh, sweetheart, I am grateful for your cheer- 
ing words. I shall live happy now.” 

45 


Cfte Diarp of a OtaD <SirI 

“And you shall be my wife. When you die, 
you shall he my wife, darling, and be sure you 
lose your heart to none other.” 

“Oh, Lucifer, this is hell for me. I will be 
your wife. Every day you pass through the fiery 
brimstone, I shall walk with you. I shall help 
you to torture those who have loved you not. I 
shall jab your pitchfork into the forms of every 
one who has harmed you or I. I shall torture 
every one I hate. Yes, darling, I shall be at the 
gate of hell, ready to pitch into the blazing fire 
every one I meet that has done me a single wrong. 
Every one who has called me a fool I shall set 
afire; that will be just compensation. They will 
suffer wdio have made me sufler on earth. I love 
my darling Lucifer. I am going to be his wife. 
Ha ! ha ! his darling wife ! 

September 4. 

Oh! I am in misery. Misery seems to cling 
with me always, and I cling to it. I love it, and 
it loves me. We court each other ardently. But 
some day I shall never be miserable. Oh ! world, 
why did you set forth so many miseries for me? 
Why did you bid me suffer as I am suffering now ? 
Tell me why! Was it because you saw my fu- 
ture destiny? Was it because Heaven told you I 
was the spouse of the devil? Was it because I 
hate you? I do hate you! I hate every human 
living on the face of the earth ! I do, I do ! I 
hate the flies and insects; I hate the birds that 
sing in the green treetops. I hate a new-born 

46 


Cfte Dtarg of a Otaft <&itl 

babe. I hate all young girls because they hate me. 
I hate the priests, for they are money makers. 
They love money and they are preaching for it. 
But I do love the good sisters. Some of them are 
ridiculously mean, but the good ones I adore. I 
hate the ministers; they are rascals. I hate bish- 
ops. I do indeed. 

I knew a woman — now this is a truth, and is 
going in my diary, too. She was a poor woman, 
delicate of frame, and heartbroken, and she had a 
wayward son. She couldn’t help it if he wouldn’t 
do as she bade him. 

This young fellow was about to be killed. The 
law was to carry out its justice. She, the poor, 
heartbroken woman, went to the Bishop, and 
asked him to save her boy. Do try to do it. And 
he said as coldly as if he was eating his breakfast, 
“Why didn’t he behave himself?” That was a 
sweet consolation for a mother. That Bishop, if 
he ever takes this book up to read, will know 
who that woman bowed down in grief was. That 
is one example of religion. Another is to put chil- 
dren out of a schoolhouse for money. 

I hate the judges of the higher courts of Utah. 
I hate every one who has an office in any state 
around the prisoners and jails. I hate them all ! 

September 6. 

What I wrote yesterday is the truth, an honest 
fact. I can lie/but I don’t always lie. I hate 
every one but the sisters. Religion is nothing 
only a sham. It was gotten up just like my diary, 

4 7 


Clje Diarg of a SJtaf) <Sirl 

nothing to it. Well, there’s something in my 
diary. It’s all truth, too. 

September 4. 

Every day I have to sew a little, and indeed I 
am not in love with the occupation at all. My 
sister thinks it would be best for me to learn sew- 
ing, but, no, I shall never be an old dried-up 
dressmaker, sewing from morn till night. I want 
to travel and see the world, and I shall do as I 
wish. Damn the old sewing, anyway ! 

The next fair that I hear of I am going to, so 
I can take a prize. I know I could, and that 
would be for the giddiest girl on the grounds. 

They would be apt to run me out if they knew 
I had such a diary written. Of course they need 
only tell me to go, when I’d go politely. I am 
not a jackass. I would not have to be run out. 
Never ! 

If they put me out one gate, I would wait at 
another, and get in again. I'm not easily insulted 
that way, something like the devil. You cannot 
insult him. Neither can you me. If a lady put 
me out of her house, I would watch her on the 
street some day and call her down. I would catch 
her in a crowd and let every one know what she 
did. That’s what I’d do. 

I am angry to-day, so angry. What is that 
noise? Some foolish girls playing around with 
their fellows, I suppose. I hope they will soon 
go home. It annoys me dreadfully to hear giddy 
girls around here. Girls and your fellows, depart, 

48 


C&e Diatp of a SJtaf) ®itl 

or you’re liable to hear something you won’t like 
to hear. 

September 20. 

I am so weary that I don’t know what to do 
with myself. 

I don’t like September, anyway. I hate the 
Autumn season. It is miserable. Everything 
looks so gloomy. I shall be glad when the winter 
comes and all those faded leaves will be covered 
up. Every one is miserable to-day. I am going to 
lie down and dream of Lucifer. 

September 29. 

The other day I had a pleasant dream. It was 
about my darling Lucifer. He showed me in 
that dream how the Mormons give their wives 
the famous hug. 

I know how it is done, for he showed me. And 
I shall some day become famous for introducing 
the famous hug. 

World, don’t ever become astonished to see me 
showing a crowded hall some day how the famous 
hug is given. Don’t laugh at my nonsense nor 
deem it as such, for indeed I am not talking non- 
sense. I am going to have a picture of that fa- 
mous hug in this book. It will be the frontis- 
piece. And, mind you, take a good look at it. It 
will show you how to take a famous hug. It will 
be a picture of the devil and a girl whom he is 
hugging. 


49 


CJ )t Dfatp of a Cltaft <5irl 

Anybody who dislikes my diary need not read 
it. 

If you buy one and don’t like to read the con- 
tents, lay it away, but you can’t get your money 
back. Ha ! ha ! ha ! You can’t get your money 
back ! 

September 30. 

The last day of September. I am alone again 
to-day. Oh! this solitary life of mine! I am 
unhappy. I wanted to go out to-day, but couldn’t, 
because I didn’t have any place to go. 

October 8. 

To-day my sister leaves for Butte. I am grieved 
to see her go. I like her. She is my favorite sis- 
ter. She is pretty and proud. She, too, is a 
genius, but her genius does not run in the same 
line as mine does. She is gifted in a quieter way 
than I am. I am wonderfully gifted in litera- 
ture. I love to write, especially about my dreams. 

Last night I dreamed that Brigham Young was 
living. And he came to my house to see if one 
of his wives was at my home; she was not there. 

Well, Brigham Young seemed to be fine look- 
ing in this dream of mine. He was large and well 
built. 

When he found his wife was not there he made 
preparations to take his departure. Finally he 
asked me if I was a saint. 

“No,” said I ; “I am a devil.” 

“Why, not so,” he said. “You must be 

50 


con- 


Cfte Diarp of a Otaft 

verted to our church. You must not be a devil !” 
Then I felt my position keenly. I had truthfully 
told him that I was a devil. 

He began to tell me all about the rules of the 
church. I listened attentively; I was interested 
in the man, not in what he was telling me. I 
looked at his arms. They were strong looking. 

He told me how they were received into the 
church, and how they must study their scriptures, 
and that I couldn’t drink tea or coffee if I wanted 
to be a good Mormon. That was enough for me. 
I couldn’t do without my coffee and tea. That I 
must have ; whether my soul is saved or not, I am 
bound to have my coffee. 

“Well,” said I when he told me that, “I could 
never be a Mormon.” 

He looked at me strangely. I guess he thought 
I was a genius of some kind. 

He failed to mention the famous hug. I was 
tempted to ask him, but all the while my dear 
Lucifer was saying, “Silence, sweetheart ; he 
might show you the famous hug. Do not tempt 
the good saint, for you are not of his rank. Do 
not tempt, lest you repent !” 

And I didn’t ask him then. I spoke with the 
great Apostle on several different points of his re- 
ligion, and he answered every question I put to 
him. I liked him; he was a charming conversa- 
tionalist. I like a good entertainer. I really do. 

I got quite friendly with him before I stopped. 
The temptation to ask him about the famous hug 
was irresistible. 


51 


Cfje SDfarg of a (Htat) <Sirl 

I looked at him shyly and asked : 

“Are } r ou not famous for hugging?” 

“Hugging!” he cried, astonished at my ques- 
tion. 

“Yes, hugging,” I repeated. 

“I am the most famous hugger in the world. 
I love to hug. I adore women. That is in the re- 
ligion.” 

“Oh,” said I, “can you explain how this hug 
became so famous?” 

“Because it is done so gently.” 

Because it was done so gently ! I wasn’t a bit 
wiser than when I asked. I might as well have 
asked my toe how it grew. 

But then I awoke from my slumbers. I had 
had a silly dream, and I can hear yet those very 
words, “Because it was done so gently.” 

October 9. 

I don’t want a gentle hug. I want one that is 
strong! I like a strong man; I love a vicious 
man. I don’t say I would like to marry one, for 
I don’t want to marry at all. I like to talk with 
a vicious man. 

Oh, Brigham! if you had only shown me the 
famous hug. 

October 10. 

I was writing to-day when a lady came to the 
house looking for my mother to join some lodge. 
They make me so sick. One would think she was 
going to die soon. I’m going to live without in- 

52 









‘Oh, devil; Til be happy with you when I descend to your 

fiery kingdom/' 

(Diary of a Utah Girl.) — P. 53. 






* 
















































































Cl )C IDiarg of a SJtaf) <Slrl 

surance. I’m going to get insured in hell when I 
reach it. That’s the hottest place in eternity. 
I’m going to have a hot old time in the old town 
some night. The devil and I will join hands and 
have a grand old song. 

October 11. 

I have begun to read a book entitled “From Out 
the Gloom.” It was written by Bertha Clay. She 
is a good writer. She is, I am sure, a good woman, 
not a devil like me. But who can tell what one is 
from reading their work only ? I have written an 
elegant book. It’s so calm. Nothing in that book 
about the devil. It’s as peaceful as a river in its 
flow. Some one will read that book and say: “I 
should like to be that girl. She must have the 
heart of a saint.” And when my diary comes out, 
they will say : “Oh, that girl is a devil !” Why, 
certainly I’m a devil. I own up to that. I am a 
devil, a natural-born one. But, you see, I can’t 
help it, I was born that way. 

I might as well be a devil as a saint. I like 
this book, though it is very sad. I like sad stories ! 

Oh, devil! I’ll be happy with you when I de- 
scend to your fiery kingdom. 

October 12. 

The life of a writer is the most interesting life 
by any means. I am searching for a publisher for 
my work. I am undecided as to whom I shall 
give it. There are so many to think about. I 
shall be slow choosing a publisher, I know. 

53 


C6e Dtarp of a Otaft <©irl 

But that book will never make me famous. I 
know it won’t. I dreamed it, and I know it won’t. 

But my diary will be received kindly, until it 
is read by the first wise man, and then it will not 
be noticed after. Ha ! ha ! The rising genera- 
tion shall read it with delight, and it will be read 
when I shall be the bride of the devil and my 
earthly part be mouldered into dust. But then it 
will be read ! 

I say my diary will be read, and when it is done 
I shall go out in the back yard, and scream that 
my bad diary is written. I shall scream so all the 
saints can hear me : “My bad diary is written, it 
is written, it is written !” 

October 26. 

I went to a funeral to-day in the Catholic 
Church. The services were so solemnly grand that 
I was tempted in my solemn mood to destroy my 
diary. 

But when I came home, I would not do it. 

I have a will and a strong one, too. No one 
can make me do what I don’t want to do. I am 
very affectionate, with those only that suit me. I 
love to talk to those I love, but I don’t love any- 
body. When I do love it will be with all the 
strength of my soul. When I form an idol of my 
own, I shall love truly. I should never betray 
a good man. Heaven, forbid it ! If I ever marry, 
which I never shall, because I am not pretty 
enough, I shall be a loving little wife, fond and 
true. My home will be one little paradise on 

54 


Cfte Diarg of a (Utafi ©trl 

earth. In the winter time I shall make my study 
a little haven of rest. I shall decorate it artisti- 
cally and write all winter long. 

Ah ! that home would be Heaven itself. But I 
am selfish. I would want the man to be gone all 
day. I don’t like men to stay around the house. 
Damn the men, anyway 1 

October 27. 

I was in doubt to-day as to whether it would 
be wise to let this diary be read by young girls. 

I had another fall to-day. I was coming out 
from the parlor into the kitchen and I tripped on 
a rug. I had a bottle of ink in my hand, and that 
was spilled. It spattered on my face and hands. 
My lovely hands were spoiled, I thought, and it 
made me angry. 

I arose and looked into the looking-glass. 
Heavens, what a sight. A blue face, instead of a 
white one. It almost made me cry. Mama was 
out, so I escaped a scolding. I ran and got some 
hot water, a bar of soap, and a rag. Then I got 
to work, and made haste to get the ink off the car- 
pet. I scrubbed it hard, but I couldn’t get it off. 
I was terribly disappointed over the work. Mama 
was coming, I could hear her. Oh, dear ! I was in 
such a plight ! I hastened in the next room and 
hid my brush, water and cloth. Just as I was 
going into the parlor I upset the pail of water. I 
had another job on hand. I couldn’t get another 
job done before mama set her foot into the room. 

55 


Cfre Dtarp of a Otai) <©frl 

“Good God!” said she; “what have you been do- 
ing?” 

“I have been cleaning up a little, mama,” said 
I. ‘‘When I was passing out with this pail, I met 
with an accident. It will do no harm.” 

She went away. She did not notice the ink. I 
was glad, and it happened that she never did. I 
am lucky, you see, just as lucky as I can be. 

If my sister were home she would have said, 
“You stupid little huzzy!” 

But I’m not a huzzy, Fm a devil. 

October 28. 

I am a devil, as I often admit, but I don’t care. 
Some day I’ll live in a mansion, and, oh, I’ll be 
so happy ! I shall be Mrs. Lucifer. That will be 
fine. I’ll live in a mansion of burning souls. 

Every one who laughs at my diary, I shall meet 
them on the brink of hell, and stick a pitchfork 
into them. I’ll pull their tails and make them 
dance. 

Just as sure as I’m a devil, I’ll do it. And you 
all know I’m a devil ! 

October 29. 

I am going to buy me a new winter hat to-day. 
I’ve worn my old one until I look crazy, but I’m 
not a bit. The devil wouldn’t like me if I was 
crazy. And I practice good sense every day. It 
comes with practice. 

It’s like everything else on earth. Hugging 
comes with practice, and so does sense. Any one 

56 


Cfre IDtatg of a CJtaf) <£url 

who would like to take lessons on this great study 
may call at my home. 

I am noted for my good sense. I am ! I am ! 
I am ! 

October 30. 

Sighing again. Will my poor heart ever cease 
to sigh ? Will my dark eyes forever be filled with 
tears? I cannot understand life, especially my 
own. I like to live sometimes, and the next mo- 
ment I am wishing to die. I shall die some day. 
And I hope it comes soon, that my diary will 
never be finished. I do, I do, I do ! 

October 31. 

I am afraid my diary will soon be finished. 
And I have not found a publisher for my first 
book yet. I am mad because I am so slow in find- 
ing one. 

But I shall find one when the right time comes. 
I have finished readipg “From Out the Gloom,” 
and I like it very much. I think the author is a 
woman to be admired. 

One thing, her genius does not rank with mine. 
She is above me, I suppose, in the light of the 
world, but below me in my own estimation. 

I wonder what her thoughts were. I wonder if 
she ever loved, and if she did, how did she spend 
her life ? I wonder if she sang well, played well 
and traveled much? 

I wonder if she was beautiful? If all the au- 
thors were beautiful, certainly I shall have to 

57 


Cfte Dtarp of a Ota{) <£>irl 

stand back; I shall have to go way back and sit 
down. I am not pretty. I am not even good 
looking. I am small, dark, and inclined to be 
stout. I am not a fine built woman. I am plain 
of form and face. I have pretty hands and hair, 
but that is all. 

I am fairly well educated ; I always took an in- 
terest in my studies. I am a genius, and that is 
better than all the world. Better than beauty or 
gold. My genius is apt to make me rich, and I 
am not particular whether it does or not. If it 
brings me fame, it will bring me wealth. So I 
shall not let that worry me. 

November 1. 

Winter’s winds are fast approaching. I like the 
cold blizzards of the winter. They are fierce, and 
I like everything fierce. I like a fierce man or 
woman. I wish I was a tall, strong, masculine- 
looking woman, and I would have a grand career. 
But I am the most feminine little person you ever 
saw. I am delicate of feature, and inclined to be 
pale. My eyes being so dark and large, that makes 
me look still paler. I have dainty ways. No one 
to read this diary would believe to meet me after- 
wards that I am its author. They would look 
at me in astonishment, but my mind is bad. I 
have a bad mind, but a pure-looking face and 
modest ways. I am retiring in my disposition. 
All writers are naturally so. I love retirement, 
and if I gain fame, I shall be retired. The world 
will not call me a runabout. I shall travel a 

58 


Cfje Diatg of a flltaf) <8Hrl 

great deal. I love travel. But my disposition 
cannot change. Never, never, never I 

November 2. 

I am afraid it is going to storm. And I want 
to go to an opera to-night. Damn it if it rains, 
anyway ! 

November 3. 

Dreaming again of my dear sweetheart, Lucifer. 
How glad it makes me to dream of him no hu- 
man can ever realize. I love him, and to dream 
of him is joy. 

People who call me a fool for loving Lucifer 
will be greater fools for not loving him. I know 
I’m bound for hell, but Pm willing to go. I don’t 
wear my knees out asking forgiveness for what I 
do, for I do what I think is right. I love to sin; 
I don’t like to commit faults, only sin. I am 
never contented unless L am sinning. If I can’t 
sin any other way, but with myself, I do that. I 
call myself a liar, a thief and a back-biter, and I 
am sometimes. 

When I am famous I shall be famous for all 
the lies I tell. I can tell three lies while you’d 
think it was only one. I am a famous liar, and I 
know it. But if any one came to me and called 

me a liar, I would tell them to go to . I am 

looking forward to Christmas with glad anticipa- 
tions. I love Christmas. I wonder why there 
isn’t a Devilmas. There should be by all means. 

59 


Cfce Dfatp of a aitaj) <Sttl 

If I had the setting of the days I should have a 
Devilmas. That would be a day set apart for the 
dear lover of my life. Mary MacLane is getting 
more famous every day. I wonder if she labors 
under the impression that my darling loves her! 
If she does she is wrong, for he told me that he 
loved me, and I believe it. 

He loves me because I love him. He does not 
love me for my beauty. I am not even sweet 
looking. If I were I would not have to court the 
devil. I should court the handsomest Mormon I 
could find. 

And Fd win him; yes, I!d win him, for I have 
charming ways ! 

November 4. 

Oh, for one famous hug! I am longing in- 
tensely for a famous hug. To-day my longing 
was so great that I ran out the back door and 
called to a peddler. I knew he was a Mormon, 
and I wanted him to hug me just once. I caught 
him and gave him a good hug. I threw his hat 
off in my effort to get the hug. He looked so 
frightened that I didn’t know what to do. I ex- 
cused myself and told him I thought it was Tom. 
I guess he looked at me rather strangely, but that 
didn’t hurt me. I had the hug and that was what 
I wanted. It wasn’t a famous one, though. Just 
a plain, every-day hug. 

I guess when he reads this diary he will think 
about me a great deal. I am sure he will. 

60 


Cl)e Diatg of a Otat> <Sttl 

November 7. 

I had to run away from the bedroom with my 
diary to-day. I made my escape. I could not re- 
sist laughing. One of my brothers strolled into 
the room, and I feared he would read my famous 
diary. So I ran out with it. This diary is going 
to surprise my people. They will certainly receive 
a shock. Let them get shocked, it will cure them. 
I imagine every one hates me. I guess my im- 
agination is nearly correct, for the people do hate 
me, and I hate them thrice more. 

No one can hate me worse than I can hate them. 
I can hate something terrible. And I can love so 
ardently. If I should write any one a good love 
letter, they would go mad. I am gifted in that 
way. I can write the sweetest love letters you 
ever read. I am not much given to this sort of 
writing. I like best to write in my bad diary. I 
hate to come to the conclusion of my diary. I 
cannot write two ; I wish I could and they would 
be written. I shall, in the latter part of my life, 
write a short biographical sketch. 

November 30. 

The nearer Christmas comes, the greater grows 
my anxiety to know what I will get. Maybe noth- 
ing. Well, if I don’t get anything else, I shall be 
sure of a kiss from my darling Lucifer, and his 
kiss is worth many others. 

My sister in Butte will send me a gift that will 
be worth having. I always appreciate her gifts. 

61 


€be Dfatp of a <£>irl 


I like her. She is divinely sweet. She is not 
such a gifted person as I am, and I am glad she 
is not for my sake. She shall never share my 
laurels. I would be madly insane if she did ven- 
ture into the literary field. I would certainly be 
driven to Provo in the red wagon, and I have no 
desire to be amongst a pack of fools. The world 
would call me a fool then, but now it cannot, for 
I am not a fool. I have a little girl friend who 
loves to read love stories, and as soon as I receive 
the galley proofs of my diary I shall show them to 
her. She will not be jealous, anyway. Of that I 
am sure. Many a secret we two have held, and 
we shall hold many more. But I don’t like her 
Her presence is hateful to me. I do not like her 
to come near me. I don’t like any one to visit 
with me. I want to be alone, alone, forever more ! 
December 1. 

This year has glided by on devil’s wings. It 
will soon be gone. And I shall rejoice and be 
happy. Every year that ends I get down on my 
knees and thank Heaven for it. Not for the year, 
but because it is past. 

I hate life, and I suppose if any one told me I 
was going to die, I’d be fool enough to cry. I 
-n°t a f ° o1 - 1 may be a little silly, but not a 


When this diary appears and any newspaper 
calls me a fool, I shall contradict them. I shall 
go to the office and call them fools a hundred 
times. If they put me out I shall go politely. 


62 


Ci)c Diatg of a 2Jtaf) <0irl 

I hate newspaper men, anyway. They were 
born with lies in their mouths. 

But I guess they will not deal severely with the 
book I am writing. And if they do, they will be 
fools, fools, fools! 

December 3. 

Christmas always brings work with it. That’s 
why I don’t like it. If it brought me fame, I 
would hail its coming with gladness. If I don’t 
get what I expect for presents, I will be disap- 
pointed again, and I would sooner have it stay 
away. 

I have to stretch curtains, and I hate that work. 
I despise it. Who ever invented that kind of 
work should have been hung. Damn him, any- 
way. 

I prick my fingers a thousand times before I 
have that hateful task accomplished. And my 
pretty hands bleed. I have the hand of an artist. 
They are simply beautiful. Mary MacLane may 
be beautiful of face and lovely of form, but I can- 
not boast of beauty. I wish that my liver was as 
good as Mary’s, but I don’t know whether it is or 
not. My good liver will never bring me fame. I 
want a good brain, and nothing else. 

December 4. 

The longer I live the more restless I become. 
Oh ! life is very dreary ! I wish I could go out 
coasting every night. But I can’t because I’m 
preparing for the holidays. The holidays will do 

63 


C&e Diatg of a CHtafj <Sirl 

me no good whatever. When the house is looking 
fine, and everything in place, some one will come 
in with snow on their feet and make the kitchen 
floor as black as ever, and then track that filth 
into the bedrooms. I must have my share of the 
work. I would not like to see mama do it all. 

December 20. 

All day I have been thinking of my darling 
Lucifer. Will he come to me on the great feast 
of Christmas, and tell me I shall soon have my 
life’s ambition satisfied? 

Who ever wrote the lines: “There’s nothing 
half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,” wrote 
correctly. The truest lines ever written. I can 
feel the blood flowing warmly in my veins when I 
think of my darling Lucifer. My heart beats vio- 
lently when he speaks to me in imagination. I 
am jealous, too. And jealousy is as bitter as the 
grave. Mary MacLane, if you win the love of my 
darling, I shall kill you as sure as you exist. 

December 24. 

Christmas eve. I am happy this glorious eve. 
To-night I am going to church, to midnight mass. 
And then I shall come home, go to sleep and 
dream of my darling Lucifer, the great king of 
hell. No love on earth would satisfy me ! Unless 
the love of a good Mormon. And they would not 
wed a girl who loved the devil. Damn the Mor- 
mons ! I shall love him in spite of you and your 

64 


Cfte Diarg of a ©tab ©ill 

teachings, and your famous hugs. I love him in 
spite of all creeds. 

December 25. 

I have received many gifts. Gifts I did not 
expect to get. I look at and admire them now, 
but they will soon be cast aside and forgotten, 
like I will be some day. But not until my fame is 
realized. 

I love fame and a great name. To gain this I 
must write my diary. I have tried to write and 
be moral, but the world won’t listen to that sweet 
story, I know. 

If I thought it would I would never write this 
diary. But I am laboring under the impression 
it will not take so well as it ought to. I have sent 
it to a publisher and am now awaiting a reply. It 
will not come for weeks, mayhap for months, but 
I have patience; my heart can wait for months if 
need be. 

It has been two weeks since I sent it and I 
thought yesterday would bring me the reply I am 
awaiting. If they send it back, I shall send it to 
another, and another, and another ! 

December 28. 

New Year’s is fast approaching. I wonder if 
next year will see me nearer to fame ! 

I am as sensible as any one can be, even if I am 
the author of a bad diary. 

I have traveled much the past year. I mean 
the passing year. I have seen many different 

65 


Cfte Diarg of a Ota ft <®irl 

climes and people. I enjoy it very much, and if 
fortune favors me I shall go again. 

I hope the coming year will bring me a step 
nearer to my fame. I want fame, and fame I 
shall have. 

The one who tells me my future is marred by a 
weak constitution, I will tell him he is a liar. 

The promise of my future will be fulfilled to 
the very letter. My name shall some day be writ- 
ten in the hall of fame, and, oh, the glory, the 
greatness of such a name for me! 

In my novel entitled “Strange Fates, or Detta,” 
I have written some very beautiful passages. They 
are so sad ! 

I wrote it at the early age of eighteen, at the 
same time my diary was being written. My brain 
is fine, but it is too active for my own good. 

One little paragraph is extremely lovely : “ ‘Dear 
faithful spouse of my life, you have indeed loved 
me as you said you would until death separated 
us. Death is now upon my brow, and I am about 
to leave you. I trust you with the care of our 
little daughter. See that she is raised as her title 
and rank command. Will you promise me this 
much V she eagerly asked.” That paragraph is 
from the scene in Galord Palace in London, where 
Detta, the beautiful American girl who wedded a 
Lord of England, is dying. 

And that chapter is sad. I haven’t the MS. 
here or I could tell more of it in my diary. I re- 
member that much. It is pathetically written, but 
not well written. The plot is good, but the lan- 

66 


Cfie Diatg of a Otaft <5i'cl 

guage is not excellent. It is my first ; my second 
shall be better. 

Who would think to read that book that I wrote 
it, and then wrote this diary at the same time ? 

Yet how different the mind of the same girl ! 

World, you must give me fame, for I am a 
woman of two minds. I can write two kinds of 
literature. Good and bad. Give me the leaf of a 
laurel, and I shall be satisfied. I have intellect, 
and it is of a strange order. WThen I was a little 
girl I used to like retirement. I would wander 
off to my playhouse and there remain for hours at 
a time. And I was a sweet, quiet child, not mean 
and ugly; I am not mean now. I would give a 
poor person who came to me and told me they 
were hungry the very last bite I had to eat ; I am 
a little charitable. 

I am a devil, but sometimes I can act the part 
of a saint. 

December 31. 

To-night closes a year. Farewell, old year, you 
have not dealt so unkindly with me, after all. 
You have witnessed many tender messages of love 
between the devil and me. You have heard me ex- 
press my ardent admiration for charming Brig- 
ham Young, and you have heard me yelling to the 
top of my voice for a good famous hug. You saw 
me, old year, run after the Mormon to hug him, 
and if you had lips you would have laughed. 

I am a comical girl. Full of mischief. And 
so far in my life every one shows me respect. 

67 


Cfte Diatg of a (Utafj ©id 

January 2 , 1903. 

I have read of many writers. Wordsworth was 
a great man. He loved retirement, and his writ- 
ings were very pure and simple. 

Leigh Hunt was another great man. His works 
are much admired. He was cheerful. That was 
one of his chief characteristics. His sentiment 
was lively and tender, rather than serious and im- 
pressive. He didn’t care for the royal people, and 
he was right, too, for the right way to treat those 
fools is to give them a good kick. That would be 
a better salute than to kiss their hands. 

I admire him for his will. But I have no love 
for any great poets. 

Adelaide Anne Procter is another one I don’t 
like. I have read much of her history, and though 
6he reached fame I do not envy her. 

Felicia Hemans is too melancholy. Byron, 
Scott, Longfellow, Shakespeare, and especially 
Charles Dickens, are not favorites of mine. I like 
best to read Mary MacLane’s story and “Thou 
Shalt Not.” 

I don’t like characters that possess little indi- 
viduality. Mere generalizations of intellectual at- 
tributes and personified theories are not to mv 
liking. 

I can converse fluently on literary subjects with 
any one. If I meet people I can’t talk to on liter- 
ature, I shun them. I like intellectual people. If 
I ever fall in love, it will be with intellect. I 
study the character of every individual with whom 

68 


Cfte Diatp of a CJtaf) <£>ttl 

I come in contact. And if I find their education 
neglected, I pity them. I talk to them and tell 
them all about the great men and women who left 
an everlasting name in the literary firmament. 

January 4. 

I worked hard to-day, cleaning the house after 
the holidays. I expect a letter from my publish- 
ers. If they had mail carriers here I could find 
out sooner, but my brother calls for the mail, and 
he comes home late. 

If I were a man I would hurry home with my 
sister’s mail. But boys are slow. Damn them, 
they are slow ! 

Afternoon. 

I peeped out of the window, and I saw my 
brother coming home in company with another 
young man. He wanted to loan him a book and 
so brought him up to the house. He didn’t give 
me my letter until the young man took his de- 
parture. It was a letter from the publishers. 
With trembling hands I tore the letter open. My 
heart was palpitating when I opened the letter to 
read. Oh, joy! A letter of acceptance. Now I 
am an authoress ! My very first book has been 
accepted, and I am delighted beyond expression. 
But I shall not yell this time. I shall yell only 
when my diary will be finished. And then the 
world will know I was born a genius. And I 
was, I was, I was! 


69 


Cfte Diarp of a Otaf) <£wl 

January 5. 

And so I was a natural-born authoress. Now, 
old world, you can laugh at my diary. But you 
cannot laugh at my novel. You can laugh at me, 
but not at my book. 

It is solemn and lovely. It is well worded in a 
sense of that word. 

But I like best to read my diary. In this diary 
are my very thoughts.. Every bad thought I ever 
had will be read in this bad diary of mine. I am 
happy because the world will recognize my genius 
in this diary. 

I am not sentimental, and I don’t want to be 
called sentimental. If a girl ever boasted of her 
remarkable genius I do. Genius I have and I 
know it, but will it bring me the fame I so ar- 
denty crave? 

Too bad my first novel will not glorify me. If 
it would this bad diary would never appear. But 
it shall appear now. I want fame, and fame I 
shall have. No matter what the world will sav 
of me. J 

World, you might have shamed others, but 
shame me you cannot. I will not be shamed. 
Why should I let fools cast me down to the very 
earth in humiliation ? Why should I weep be- 
cause some one criticises my diary. Indeed I shall 
not. I shall not weep for any one’s rebukes. If 
other authors have died because their work was 
severely criticised that is no reason I should. And 
I shall not ! 


70 


CJj t Diarp oJ a Otaft <$irl 

January 6. 

I have accepted the terms of the publishers for 
the publication of my book, and now if they pub- 
lish it it will be all right. When my diary ap- 
pears it will attract considerable notice. 

It will shock the world, I know, but it has been 
shocked before, so what need I care? I would like 
to be the first woman who ever shocked the world 
by a bad diary. Then my fame would be won in a 
single day. 

But Mary has beat me. Her story came ahead 
of mine, and I know hers shocked the world. Mine 
is not so bad as hers was, either. 

January 7. 

I am writing a little bit every day now, and I 
never miss a night, dreaming of my darling Luci- 
fer. Last night I had a lovely dream about him. 
It was our wedding day. 

I was arrayed in spotless white and had a long 
tulle veil which hung to the very end of my train. 
I looked quite nice for once in my life. My dark 
brown hair was combed plain, as usual. My small, 
white hands were clinging to Lucifer’s fiery ones. 
We were to be married by a very homely devil, a 
devil so homely that I shivered with fright. 

Lucifer, perceiving my timidity, told me not to 
fear. 

These loving words made me courageous and 
the ceremony proceeded. I was happy when that 
little word “yes” was spoken. I was the wife of 
the man I so dearly loved. 

71 


Cfie Dtarg of a (Utaft (Su'rl 

And in that moment I was the happiest of mor- 
tals. 

I knew that no Mary MacLane could ever take 
my darling from me. He loved me and had made 
me his darling wife. He would walk through the 
world with me, hand in hand. And I would love 
him, forever and forever. Every tear I would 
shed he would wipe away. Every word of insult 
spoken he would avenge. 

January 8. 

The first month of the new year is quickly glid- 
ing past. I wish it would not go so quickly. I 
would like to have it linger, for the dreams I am 
having are perfectly lovely. I love to dream. I 
am happy only when I dream. 

I would always linger near my beloved, if I 
might, but I cannot. The road to his abode is 
the road to death. The way is narrow and dark. 

January 9. 

It is snowing, and the city looks so gloomy. I 
like to look at the snow-clad mountain. The 
snowflakes are soft and white. They remind me 
of the white gown I wore the other night in my 
dream when I was becoming the bride of my dar- 
ling Lucifer. Would to hell that dream would 
come true! 

January 10. 

I am incessantly longing to travel again. I 
like to travel very much. If my book proves a 

72 


C&e Dtarp of a dtaf) ©frl 

success in a pecuniary way, I shall travel. I have 
traveled much for one so young in years, but my 
cravings are not appeased. I want to travel, 
travel, travel, until my head begins to waggle, but 
that will never waggle, for it has too fine a mess 
of brains. There are some folks when they read 
this diary who will wish my head did waggle off, 
but as fortune favors me, it will not waggle until 
it will waggle for the very last time on earth. 
When it stops on earth it will waggle in hell. 
Ha ! ha ! in hell, it will waggle. 

January 11. 

Last night I went to see "Faust.” It was splen- 
did, and indeed I was very much interested in the 
characters. I saw my darling in human form. I 
looked at him lovingly. But it was not the form 
of my darling, only his imitator. But it pleased 
me just the same. 

The young man who acted the part of “Faust” 
did not for a moment think that a little girl in 
the audience longed to step on the stage and ask 
him for a good hug. But that little girl was 
watching every movement he made. I would like 
to have that actor hear of me some day. I do 
envy his sweetheart. She will get a hug from 
him that will set every nerve in her frame going. 

But I shall some day get the dear embrace of 
the devil and in hell. 

I have never had what I could call real rest. 
I have always been restless. I shall be so long 

73 


Cbe SDfarp of a 23taf) <©frl 

as this heart of mine shall beat. But I want it 
to beat. I do, I do, I do! 

January 12. 

Another letter from my publishers. How glad 
I am to get so many letters, but then all authors 
like to receive mail. Some day I shall have so 
many letters to answer. I shall do my utmost to 
do justice to my friends. Half of my correspond- 
ents will be fools, and I don’t care what I say to 
fools, anyway. I am going to have my book pub- 
lished, and I am glad it is going to be. I shall 
some day be known. 

The devil showed me how it was done, but I 
would like to see a Mormon giving a hug. 

I love the good things of life and the good 
things of life love me. I am only going to live 
once, and while I live I shall experience true hap- 
piness. 

There are many who will call me unladylike in 
manner. My own personality will answer that 
question. Come, all ye, who so judge me and 
gaze for one moment on my dark, sad face. I 
was born and raised a lady. I am one. This 
diary shall not make me the less refined. 

I was well born and bred. My mother’s ances- 
tors were fine. They had wealth, position, and 
were a proud people. They were gifted in every 
manner. I am proud of my ancestors; I often 
sit down and think of them, and then in a mo- 
ment of meditation I feel like I will not publish 
my diary. Will the proud head of my darling 

74 


Cfre Di'arg of a Ota?) <SicI 

mother droop with shame when she sees her 
daughter’s diary before the world ? Will her sweet 
face pale when she reads the very words I am 
now writing? It is not my wish that she will. I 
do not like to displease my dear mother, but I 
must send forth into the world my bad diary. It 
must go before a literary public. Oh, mother I 
when you read my diary, do not be displeased. 
See me as I really am and do not scorn me, for 
I am bad, bad, bad ! 

January 15. 

I am thinking what I shall do with my money 
when my bad diary gets published. I am going 
to train my voice for one thing. I have a sweet 
voice. It is soft and very sweet. Were it not for 
that longing and my longing for fame, this diary 
would have been covered in the dark meshes of 
obscurity. I want my voice trained ! I love mu- 
sic and song, and then I want to educate myself 
grandly, and I shall. 

I was never taught to write in a literary way. 
I taught myself. 

When I began to write "Strange Fates, or 
Detta,” I really didn’t know how to quote. I 
went down to the cellar where I had thrown an 
old novel, and I scanned its pages critically. I 
came back and quoted my sentences as I thought 
they should be. Then I was in doubt as to how I 
should end and commence my chapters. 

I went back again. I saw how the chapters 
were divided and I did the same way with mine. 

75 


Ci>e Diarp of a Qtaft <£tfrl 

I wrote it as near to perfection as I possibly could. 
That was my first experience in novel writing. 

It is easy to write a diary. One has only to 
date the different parts. 

But my book was hard to write, not hard to 
write the story, but the literary part was hard. 
I can sit down and write while the room is full of 
people, and they would not stop me writing. I 
would soon forget them. 

People never bother me. My first novel was 
written while my sister was jabbering away to me 
as fast as her tongue would permit her to do. She 
is an incessant talker. I believe she would die if 
she couldn’t talk. My diary has been written in 
solitude. I have not written this where there was 
any fear of my folks reading it. They will be 
much surprised. 

Another thing I do not have to bother with is 
a dictionary. I never use one. I am a good 
speller and use good language. I am a fast writer. 
I never lose a good thought, nor a bad one, either. 
I am a bad thinker indeed. But I am sure the 
world will forgive me when it learns I am a self- 
taught writer. I love study, but when I was a 
child I was not strong and rugged like most little 
girls. I was a delicate, pale child, hard to raise, 
but gentle and quiet. 

I lost a good deal of schooling between the ages 
of seven and eleven. When I went to school first 
I was ten years old. 

I was in the second reader, but it was not long 
until I was advanced to the third. I advanced 

76 


Cfte Diarg of a Altai) <$irl 

quickly, and at the age of thirteen I was in the 
fifth reader, and high in grammar and my other 
studies. I left school when seventeen. I was in 
the second year of high school. My mother decided 
that I should have an academic education, and 
so I was sent to an academy in Salt Lake. My 
health failed me and I was obliged to return 
home. 

I have not been in school since. I am anxious 
for a brilliant education, but the devil takes most 
of my time. 

January 16. 

I am reading a book of poems entitled “Poems 
of Life and Loving.” I like it. The poems are 
sensible, and so much in sympathy with love. 
That's what I like about them. The book was 
written by a Pennsylvania girl. Her picture ap- 
pears as the frontispiece. Her face is sweet, but 
I am not in love with sweet faces. 

January 17. 

As my diary proceeds, I am dreaming con- 
stantly of my hero. I like red-haired men. I ad- 
mire them very much, and if I ever marry, I shall 
choose a man with red hair. 

If I had red hair I would be perfectly happy. 
But I haven't, and so I am going to content my- 
self with brown. I have a picture of Lucifer 
with pitchfork in his hand. It is a picture of him 
in the dark dungeon, as some people please to call 
his grand mansion, and he is pitching the devils 

77 


C&e Diarg of a (Ufa!) <Sirl 

into a fire of brimstone. This picture tickles me. 
I like it. I laugh when I see it and that is every 
day. Sometimes, if I think of it, I laugh in the 
presence of others. I know it is very foolish of me 
to do so, but it reminds me of my future triumph, 
when I shall stand thus and pitch those who de- 
nounce me into the fire. I shall meet them at the 
first gate leading into hell. I shall strike them 
with coals of fire until they reach the last gate. 
Then I shall pitchfork them into the miserable 
hole. My triumph will be then. 

People who read this will say I might get 
dragged into the fire myself. I certainly will. 
Hell is my destination. I know it and what I 
know to be truth I shall not falsify. I can be just. 

January 18 . 

The days seem to drag now. And as the winter 
lengthens T am growing more anxious to com- 
plete my diary. They say that it takes time to 
do a good thing perfectly. I guess that is right. 
I should like the one who said that to be an ac- 
quaintance of mine. I have so few charming ac- 
quaintances that a few interesting ones would do 
me no harm. I love to talk to people if they are 
intelligent. When I am traveling I meet some 
very nice people and I never forget them. Some- 
times I sit down and think of them for hours. I 
have so much time to sit down. I write a great 
deal of my time and read. I cannot get too much 
knowledge ; too much intellect cannot make me ill. 

78 


Cfre SDtarg of a (Utafr <Sftl 

It might some people, but not the little Western 
girl, the little hungry-hearted girl in Utah. 

I have never come in contact with one educated 
person who did not like me. But I do not like 
them; I am hard to be suited. 

January 19. 

I rarely forget; I have a marvelous control of 
my senses. To-day I read a pathetic little story 
of a young girl dying of a broken heart. I felt 
very sorry for her. If she died of a disappointed 
love, there is no death half so bitter. I am sor- 
rowing over her all day. I really pity those who 
are so sadly disappointed in their love affairs. 

When she saw the idol of her affections torn 
from her arms she must have felt grieved. Now, 
if that girl had been a friend of mine, I would 
have helped her if it took every drop of blood in 
my body to aid her. I would seek out her adored 
one, tell him of the love of this noble girl, and if 
I could not induce him to reciprocate her affec- 
tions, the devil himself could not move him, for 
I can be an eloquent wooer and so could I be an 
eloquent adviser. 

I pity a disappointed lover. I really pity him 
from the very bottom of my heart. If I were dis- 
appointed in the love of my darling Lucifer, I 
would not listen to any consolation. I would glide 
out in the darkness of the night, clad only in my 
necessary apparel, and I would wander afar off, 
where no living being could witness my grief. 

The silent stars would witness it. I would lie 

79 


Cfce Diarg of a (Htaf) <S>irl 

down in some isolated spot of earth, and there die. 
All my brilliant intellectual powers would be 
gone. My fame would be lost. 

But as there is no fate, I shall guide my love 
affairs properly. 

If I were disappointed in love I would not 
plead with my lover. I would not tell him that I 
loved him, that life without him would be one 
long dream of misery. I would do nothing of 
that kind. If I loved him and my love was not 
as ardently returned, I would leave him alone. He 
would never hear a word that I was dying for 
love of him. As silently as a star appears in the 
firmament, I would steal away. No one would 
ever know where, and I would die. But that man 
would never know. 

If I loved a man and he loved me, and we 
married, I would be the dear faithful companion 
of his life. His pain would be my pain, his joys 
mine, his little secrets mine, mine his tastes. I 
would be the true wife. If there were issues of 
the union, I would raise them tenderly and teach 
them the rules of etiquette. They would never 
grow up to be heathen. I would let them be edu- 
cated as they desired. I would make them learn, 
first of all, how to treat aged parents. 

They would have to treat their father with due 
filial respect. But I am not going to lecture on 
these things, for I shall never need them. It 
might benefit others. 

I am familiar with a great many boys who do 
not treat their mothers and fathers with the re- 

80 


Cfre Diatp of a Otaf) <©irl 

spect they owe them. I wish they would let me 
give them a few lessons on this point. They 
would be better for the teaching. 

January 20. 

There are times when I long to be away from 
every living soul. I get so despondent that life 
seems a dream. But my fame must come yet. 
Then I shall die content. I shall have no more 
regrets. I shall have no more desires to live. I 
want the love of my devil lover. 

And let the entire world hate him ; I love him ! 

January 28. 

The month is closing. It has gone before I 
knew it had come. Every day that passes brings 
me a day nearer to my fame, and I laugh when 
the days are closing. Some day I shall laugh 
with triumph. I shall laugh with joy! No one, 
only those who crave for fame, can reason with 
me. I have had mostly every desire of my heart 
gratified. I have never longed for a new dress or 
hat or shoes or anything like that but what my 
good mother hastened to gratify my wish. My 
means in life have not been scanty. I have had, 
so far, a luxurious life, as far as means could go. 

Had I been stronger, I would have been one of 
Utah's most brilliantly educated women. Now I 
am going to cultivate my genius and realize the 
joys of being famous. I love fame. I crave for 
it, but that no one can give me. If money could 
buy it, I would have had it long ago. If a moth- 

81 


CJ)e IDi'arp of a Otaj) <£>irl 

er’s love could have given it to me, I would have 
had it, too. But I shall get it, anj^way. Fame 
will soon be mine, and though I will be classed 
with the most immoral writers of the age, I shall 
be famous; whether it is good fame or bad fame, 
it will be alike to me. 

No living, breathing soul will ever give me 
fame, but I can give it to myself. The world 
will laugh at my fame. They will say they would 
rather lie in the sands of obscurity forever than 
to be famous for a bad diary. 

But if they could write a bad diary they, too, 
would be famous, as I am going to be, for I pos- 
sess extraordinary genius. 

Whoever says I do not lies, and I shall tell them 
so. 

January 29. 

In Utah there lives a wee maiden , 

Who is constantly craving for fame. 

She dreams of and longs for the devil. 

To give her a glorious name. 

Oft she sits in the glowing sunlight. 

And looks down the vista of years. 

And sees her name written in glory, 

Her joy is a joy filled with tears. 

Oft she sits at her chamber window. 

And longs for the hours to roll by; 

Ere she sighs, they are gassing like shadows. 

I composed this little verse this morning when 
I sat down to write in my diary. I like it. It 

82 


Cl )z Dlarp of a Cftai) ©itl 

sounds like I feel. Now, if anybody don’t like 
those verses, let him not read them. They suit 
me and why not others? Ah, old world, there 
is genius in those verses. You must admit there 
is, and if you say there is not, damn you, any- 
way ! 

January 30. 

I like to write little verses. Heaven only 
knows when I shall write another charming verse 
like the above. I am not sentimental. Now, if 
any one wrote the verse I wrote yesterday about 
me, I would certainly prosecute them; I would, 
indeed. 

Another day and the month of January shall 
be gone. But as this year grows older, my love 
for the charming devil grows stronger. I love 
you, oh, darling Lucifer; I love you madly, pas- 
sionately ! 

February 1. 

Another month has come, but as it is short I 
shall not be long in climbing up the ladder to my 
fame. A ladder is built slow, and so I shall climb 
step by step until I shall reach the top, and then 
I shall stop and damn those who will tell me to 
climb down. I will not get down for anybody, 
but I shall wait until I get up to the top before I 
scream. I am wise, you see. When I get up to 
the top, I shall look at every living mortal soul, 
and if they laugh at me I shall laugh at them. If 
they smile at me for writing a bad diary I shall 
smile in return, and if they congratulate me on 

83 


Cl )t jDiarp of a Otal) <25irl 

my genius, I shall extend my hand. I would like 
to be favored by a genius, and if I ever get the 
opportunity to do so, I shall be grateful. I like 
genius in any one. I love a gifted person. Few 
gifted people I have ever met. 

But I shall meet them yet and be glad for their 
meeting. I shall yet love and adore a natural 
born genius. Oh, to clasp the hand of little Mary 
MacLane. But I may not yet, not until I enter the 
hall of fame. I may be fooled, and my diary cast 
aside, instead of being famous, but, world, you 
must give me a name in the hall of fame; you 
must, you must, you must ! I say once more, you 
must ! 

February 2. 

Sometimes I feel I don’t want fame, but that is 
only when I read of Mary MacLane and her story. 
Will my diary compare with her splendid work? 
Will I be classed with her? Let me be, world; 
give me a seat near hers, and I shall be the hap- 
piest mortal on earth. The world will scorn me, 
but fame will smile upon me ! Society will laugh 
in my face, but let them ; I will laugh in return ! 
I will laugh in return, and the world can never 
shame me. Did they cause little Mary MacLane 
to droop her beautiful little head in humiliation? 
No, she has scorned them all ! Good little Mary, 
you are my other half, and were you a man, I 
would lead you softly by the hand, ask you to 
love me and lead me on to fame. Though you 
are a woman, I love you, little Mary, and I shall 

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C&e Diatp of a &ta& <£>M 

fight for your rights ; I will uphold you* You are 
a genius, and I am going to be a genius. I am 
one already. 

Ah ! Genius is everything nowadays, and a 
genius I surely am. 

February 3 

Yes, I am a genius, and this year will witness 
my triumph. This year I shall be called a liter- 
ary genius. Oh ! how nice it sounds to my hungry 
heart ! Genius ! genius ! genius ! I am going mad 
over genius ! 

February 9. 

I sometimes feel I will curse the world for hav- 
ing been born a woman. Had I been a man, I 
would have been great. I would be away up in 
the world. Fame I would not crave. I love re- 
tirement, and I would live in luxury were I a 
man. I would like also to possess my genius, for 
I have much of that. I said I felt like cursing 
the world for having been born a woman, but 
that would do me no good. Nobody could hear me, 
and it would not do me any good. 

I think there are good people in the world, but 
there are more fools than any other kind. 

Every day we come in contact with fools and 
the meeting becomes monotonous. 

I do hate monotony. I want to meet some nice 
kind people who can talk of fame and grandeur 
and beautiful clothes. 

Oh, how I love beautiful clothes! If I might 

85 


Cfte Diatg of a Otaft <S5itl 

only have them, world, I would be content. If I 
become famous, I shall have nice clothes. I shall 
dress grandly and be considered refined. Now, 
there are some who will say that I can never be 
fine. I am fine already. I was born a gentle- 
woman and I can never be anything else. 

I was not raised like most young ladies of this 
age. I was gently reared by a good mother and 
received a fairly good education. 

I am naturally refined, and how can refinement 
be changed? 

It can never, never, never! 

February 10. 

The winters there in Park City are something 
fierce. It is so cold that one is apt to have his 
breath frozen, and that is pretty cold. 

But I am always warm. I am a hot little girl, 
and I know it. If you’re once hot, you cannot be 
made cold. Anyway, I don’t like cold people. 
Why I like the Mormons is because they are hot 
babies. You see they can give one such a warm 
hug. A warm hug is everything in this world. I 
think so, and I don’t ask other people what they 
think. I generally use my own opinion. 

If I want to get a new hat, I don’t ask the 
milliner if she thinks it is all right. I am to be 
suited in that hat, and therefore I am going to 
use my own judgment. If I am having a new 
dress made, I am not going to ask the dressmaker 
how I shall have it made. I am going to select a 
style becoming to my form, and have her make it 

86 


Cfie Diatp of a 2Jtaft <SHrl 

as I direct. That’s the proper way to act. I 
don’t believe in consulting every one in a house- 
hold, to see if they are suited. If I think I’m 
right, I must be, and so I am going to act. So 
when this diary appears, if it doesn’t suit people, 
remember that it suited its author, and she was 
the one to be pleased. 

February 12. 

My own darling Lucifer, why don’t you come 
to me in reality. You are the object of my daily 
thoughts and my nightly dreams. How I love 
you ! Oh, I could kiss you into Heaven, but when 
we would get to the gate Peter would drive us 
away, for, darling Lucifer, you are so full of fire 
and I am so full of blood that we might cause a 
commotion. 

I am a natural born devil, and I know it. The 
world knows it, and when I addressed my dar- 
ling, in my dreams last night, I told him so. 

He told me my fears were not to be trifled with. 
And they are not. Last night as I lay slumber- 
ing on my cot, the seal of sleep upon my eyes, and 
dreamed of Brigham Young, the famous hugger. 
In that dream I was experiencing a Mormon hug, 
and, oh, the joy of it ! Will I ever forget that 
dream? A dream of tragedies! My devil lover 
saw him embrace me ; he saw him hug me fiercely, 
and into the noble bosom he drove a hot pitch- 
fork, and damned him ! Oh, the horrors of that 
dream together with its joys ! I can never forget 
it. Oh, devil, you would slay him who stole the 

87 


Cfte Diarp of a Ota& ©irl 

affections of your little brown-haired sweetheart, 
with her dark face and sad, melancholy eyes, 
wouldn’t you, dearest? 

And I would slay her who sought your affec- 
tions. I would step on her and crush her if I 
could, but my strength would not permit it. 

But, damn her who wants to win you from me ! 

February 13. 

The beautiful snowflakes are falling as gently 
as a saint wafts prayer to Heaven ; the earth looks 
beautiful in its bridal robes. 

I love the snow. I am never cold. I have the 
warmest feet and hands. 

I like the winter months because I can write 
so much better. I don’t want to be running out 
to get cooled off every minute, and in this cold 
weather I don’t want to be running to the stove 
to get warmed up. 

I am always contented with my feelings. They 
tell me fame brings misery. If it does, I want 
it, anyway. I shall try it, and if it don’t suit me, 
I shall not tell every one I know I am miserable. 
If it be misery I want it, and if it be happiness I 
want it. As I said, I shall give it a trial. Give 
everything on earth a trial. It can do no harm. 
But don’t give marriage too many trials. I think 
one marriage is sufficient for every living soul. 

I do not believe in divorces. I think a woman 
should study a man well before she offers him her 
heart and hand. 

A man should study a woman likewise. There 


C&e Di'atg of a 2Jtaj) ©id 

is no sense in rushing into matrimony. It is not 
to be trifled with. I hate a divorced woman or 
man. If the girls of the present time would only 
stop to give this matter more consideration, they 
would be better off. But they want marriage, 
and they get enough of it before they realize what 
they are doing. 

If I were not a devil, I would say, like the 
saints of old, “Heaven forgive every one who vio- 
lates this sacred ceremony!” 

I say: “The devil punish every soul who vio- 
lates the most sacred ceremony on earth!” and I 
believe he will. 

A woman has no reason to betray and delude 
a man. What right has she to run with other 
men? What right has she to break his heart? 
Aye, what right? 

I am a devil, but I know that marriage is a 
solemn ceremony. 

No living soul has a right to break up the 
home of devoted hearts ! But, alas ! they are doing 
it daily. I am a devil, but I would not like to 
have a sister go into another woman’s home and 
break it up by stealing the heart of that woman’s 
husband ! It would grieve me and I am a devil. 
I would not think of wrecking another’s life. 
Death first ! Yes, I say, death first ! 

February 14. 

How very considerate I am becoming about the 
ceremony so many violate, and which has dis- 
gusted me beyond expression ! I am in sympathy 

89 


Cfte Diarp of a (Utaft <0irl 

with the men. Damn the women, anyway ! They 
are fools, fools, fools! 

February 16. 

I am learning to hate women. They are gos- 
sipers through and through. 

There is a large house back of ours, and the big- 
gest gossiper lives there. Her tongue waggles 
like the devil’s tail. And her hands are always 
going. I detest gossip. I have never practiced 
it, and the devil forbid I shall. 

She is always talking of other people’s woes, 
and if she looked to home, alas ! she would draw 
back her gossip to a certain degree and take more 
care of her household. 

Damn gossipers, anyway! 

February 17. 

"Lead, kindly light , amid the encircling gloom. 
Lead thou me on. 

The night is dark, and I am far from home. 

Lead thou me on” 

These words echo through the wintry air. A 
funeral is being held in the church next to our 
home. What do those words remind me of ? Alas ! 
That some day I, too, shall be lifeless and cold as 
the corpse over which this beautiful hymn is be- 
ing sung. 

Some day and I, too, will have to take the hand 
of death and walk, I know not whither. Will 
there be a light to guide my footsteps in the dark- 
ness of eternity ? Will my darling take me by the 

90 



Will my darling take me by the hand and give me his wel 

come home? 

(Diary of a Utah Girl.) — P. 90. 








Cije Diarp of a Qtafi &itl 

hand and give me his welcome home? Will he 
bring a torch to show me the way to his abode ? 

I know not, until the dark gate shall have 
closed after me forever. I shall never know until 
the brightness of my large, dark, melancholy eyes 
shall be deprived of light ! I shall never know 
the sweetness of death until I shall smile upon 
my darling Lucifer ! Would it were to-day my 
funeral was being conducted ! Would it were my 
lifeless form stretched upon the bier ! Would 
that my white hands were folded upon my bosom 
and my heart had ceased to yearn! Would that 
the storm of life was passed for the little Utah 
genius ! Would the world be glad? Would there 
be no tears shed over me? When I die will the 
world say it is better off without me? Will it 
laugh when the tidings of my death shall have 
been sent forth? 

When my corpse passes through the crowded 
streets shall there be bowed heads and one tear 
shed for my departed life? Will they read my 
bad diary and say with disgust, “Better for that 
girl if she had never been born 

Ah! what shall I care then? Words of earthly 
inhabitants can never harm me. No living, breath- 
ing soul can ever harm when the cold chill of 
death shall have stilled my aching heart ! It 
does not ache now, but fame might make it ache ! 

“ And through the gloom I see those angel faces 
smile , 

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile ." 
9i 


Cfje Diatp of a Otal) <2>irl 

That hymn speaks of angel faces smiling ! How 
sweet it must seem to be an angel. When I die 
there will not be an angel smiling for me. No 
white robes for the Utah genius, when her soul 
passes beyond the aid of humans. I have never 
loved the angels, and they will never love me. 
Sometimes I would like to be a sweet, pure- 
hearted girl, but I am not; my soul is as black 
as coal. I know it, for I am the deviPs lover. I 
love him. I want his face to smile upon me, and 
not the faces of angels. Oh, devil, smile upon me 
once, darling, only once ! 

If I witnessed many such sad funerals, I would 
be insane. They are solemnly grand, and oh, 
how they touch even the heart of a natural born 
devil ! 

It is gliding on to the cemetery now. The car- 
riages are wheeling slowly away. It seems as sad 
to see those carriages rolling away as to listen to 
the hymns being sung. 

But I am going to throw those idle thoughts 
away, and go out for a walk. 

February 19. 

I cannot forget the strains of that hymn ! Those 
angel faces haunt me ! I have never longed to be 
good before. I look at the book I have written, 
and I weep. If it could bring me the fame I so 
crave, I would be one of the happiest mortals on 
earth. 

My diary would never appear, but that book 
cannot. 


92 


Cfje Diarg of a Ota!) ©j'rl 

It is simply grand in its sad, sweet tones, but 
fame never comes with sad stories. I want fame, 
if I die the day after getting it. 

Oh, world, do not judge me too harshly! I 
want fame, and to get it I am giving to the world 
every bad thought I ever entertained. 

Fame, fame, fame ! Oh, to have yon for one 
little moment! I would then die content! 

February 20. 

It must seem terrible to be haunted. I should 
not like to have a dead face before me day and 
night. I should not like to be haunted with 
angel faces forever. What is coming over my 
life? I never longed to be an angel before, but I 
do now. I went to town to-day, and in a store I 
saw some lovely pictures. They are what we call 
“Holy Pictures,” pictures of saints and angels, 
etc. I stopped and looked at them through the 
window. They are very pretty and I lingered at 
the window for the longest time, spellbound ! 

There was some strange fascination about those 
pictures for me. As I stood there, the words of 
that hymn came back to me, and I sighed. Would 
that I had never heard them! They will haunt 
me now until I die. I went inside the store, and 
purchased a small picture. It was of angels, and 
oh, it was so pretty ! I took it home and hung it 
up in my bedroom. Now, devils should not do 
this. It seems nice to sit there and write and 
look at those beautiful faces. I am a devil, but I 

93 


Cl )t Diatp of a (EJtal) <Sirl 

love beauty. I hate vulgar pictures. I detest 
them. 

I hate any one who likes them. I would sen- 
tence a man were I a judge for having immoral 
pictures in his home or office to ten years’ impris- 
onment. My diary is bad, I know it is, but I do 
not want every child in the street reading it. If 
I saw a child with my diary, I would snatch it 
and burn it. 

I would be right. It is not fit for the child’s 
mind, but I am afraid it will be read by many. 

Little ones, if you read my diary, never prac- 
tice what I am practicing now. Love virtue, love 
all humans, whatever their color or creed may be. 
Never long for fame. If you do you will rue it ! 

Do not crave fame. Good never comes from 
it. Were I born again I would be a great writer. 
I have written a book that is moral, fit for the 
mind of a nun to read, but that does not satisfy 
my cravings. I want fame, and fame may rob me 
of every little happiness my young heart now 
knows; but I am going to try it, anyway. 

February 21. 

I was wondering if Brigham Young saw the 
angel faces smiling when he closed his loving 
eyes. Did they come to meet him? Most likely 
they did. But Brigham Young, in the closing 
chapters of my book, I am learning to hate you. 
I loved you first. I grew to love you from your 
great, work, but as I read about your life, I am 
learning to hate you. In the last chapters I shall 

94 


Cfte Diarg of a CJtab 

tell why, but this must be devoted to other causes. 

Would Mary MacLane love him? No, she does 
not like such men. She does not care for them. 
She is right. What a foolish girl she would be I 
I loved the great Apostle because I thought he was 
noble. I still admire him, but I do not love him 
any more. 

But my darling Lucifer I love dearer than 
when my diary began. 

Absence does make the heart grow fonder, and 
so it is with Lucifer. I long for him to be with 
me. How I do long for my final end when my 
fame shall have reached its highest limit ! I shall 
long for death then. I shall pray for it to come 
to me. I want fame and glory and then death. 
Death in the bosom of mother earth; hell with 
my red-headed sweetheart will be paradise for me. 
I crave no other love, only my dear Lucifer’s. I 
will die, too, shortly after my fame is realized; I 
shall beg him to take me. And he will, he will, 
he will! 

February 22. 

I may be an old gray-haired woman when my 
fame shall be realized. Who knows? Maybe in 
my silent tomb when my fame will be pronounced. 
If so, I would feel like rising out of it to burn 
my diary because fame is no good to a dead per- 
son. I want fame, wealth and glory. 

February 23. 

I had a thrilling experience with a little girl 

95 


C&e Diatp of a OtaJ) ©id 

to-day. She called on me and she saw I was writ- 
ing. “What are you doing ?” she asked me. 

Her manner was sweet and her face like an 
angel’s. 

“I am writing, dear,” I replied, smiling *to her. 

Then she came to me and put her little arms 
around my neck, and, kissing me, said : 

“Are you writing about those angels?” 

“No, dear,” and I could not resist sighing. 
What a difference in the writing ! She thought I 
should write of Heaven and love. Innocence 
makes me glad. Once I was as sweet as she was, 
once I would have asked the same question, once 
I would have had the same simple trust. 

“I think,” she said, “you ought to tell about 
the pretty angels in Heaven. Are you ever go- 
ing to ?” 

I took that little girl on my lap. I smoothed 
back her golden tresses and I kissed her fair, 
sweet face lovingly. She had touched me with her 
simplicity. 

“No,” said I, “some day you will read this 
story and ” 

The thoughts of it made me mad and I did not 
finish the sentence. 

I saw at a future period the scornful look of 
her mother. I saw a future time when that little 
girl would turn from me with disgust. 

Now she loved me. She does not know that I 
love the devil. Sweet simplicity! She, like my 
other friends, will some day receive a shock when 

96 


C&e Diarg of a CJtafc <£>ttl 

the tidings of my authorship goes forth into the 
broad universe. 

The little girl spoke to me of how nice it would 
be to write about that picture I hung in my bed- 
room. 

“But, my dear,” I said, “that would only in- 
terest little girls like you.” 

“Mama and papa like to read angel stories,” she 
smilingly said. 

“Dear little girl,” said I, “some day I shall 
write one to please you.” 

She seemed pleased when I told her that. But 
her look I cannot forget. 

Writing about the devil was different to writ- 
ing of the angels, and now as I sit at my desk, I 
bow my head down the long vista of years. 

Oh, years, you are so long, and seem so dark 
to my aching heart ! 

How I wish I could stretch out my white hands 
and lift the veil that hides my future destiny ! 

I weep when I think of the little golden-haired 
girl who loved and kissed me without knowing 
the meaning of what my brain was putting forth 
for the public to read. If it could only he other- 
wise, how glad I should be ! But no. It will be 
as dark as my tortured brain will permit it to be. 

Oh, damn such thoughts ! I am going to dream 
of my darling, my brilliant-haired sweetheart. 

March 1. 

My book is being put slowly through. It seems 
it will never appear. I cannot understand why 

97 


Cfte Diarg of a SJtafi <$iil 

they are so long. It seems strange. I shall be 
glad when that excitement is over. People will 
be very much interested in the work because it is 
my first novel. Of that I am quite sure. I do 
not expect it to reach fame. If I did this diary 
would never have been written. But damn that 
book ; it will appear, anyway. 

March 2. 

This world is but a hell. How I am going to 
pronounce that as truth. It is a hell, a burning, 
miserable hell, and if the world yonder is any 
worse than this one, it must be a great place. But 
believe me truly, it is not one-half so bad. Some 
of the earthly inhabitants are worse than devils. 

This world is but a hell, 

You know it, humans, well. 

There are many souls aflame. 

In this hell — hell — hell. 

There are many devils here, 

In this hell, hell, hell; 

And they’re bound for the fiery kingdom, 

Just as well, just as well 

As the girl who wrote this poem. 

She will not be there alone; 

And she knows it is her home. 

Fiery home, fiery home. 

That poem is as true as steel. I shall not be 
there alone. And if I should, the world could 

98 


Cfce Diarg of a Ctltal) ©irl 

laugh at me then. But it can’t now. It must 
recognize my extraordinary genius, genius of a 
peculiar order. I am a strange, sad girl. What 
most girls delight in, I shun. I have given up 
every pleasure my girlhood affords to win fame. 
Men will sneer and laugh at me when they see me 
on the street, and I will often see them do it. But 
damn the men ! Their laughs and sneers cannot 
daunt me in my purpose. 

I am peculiar and odd. But, oh, so loving to 
those I favor, and they are none ! 

March 8. 

Now the world is apt to call me a maniac, but, 
as I have said, I am not one. I am not a maniac. 
I am a peculiar and odd girl, but not a bit crazy, 
if you please. I am quiet and retiring, but that 
does not make me crazy. I adapt myself to study 
a great deal, but that does not go to say I should 
be adjudged a maniac. I am constantly longing 
for a hug from a Mormon, but that does not 
prove me a maniac. I possess two kinds of genius 
and I am loving and kind. He who calls me crazy 
lies. I am not crazy. Damn every living soul 
who says I am an idiot ! Damn those who have 
gall enough to call me crazy ! 

Their gall must exceed that of every human. 
My gall is small. I do not think I have any gall ; 
if I have it is very small. I believe my liver is 
poor also. 

But no one can see your liver. It is, unfortu- 
nately, hidden from view. Thank Heaven, the 

99 


Cfte IDiarp of a Altai) <5itl 

yellow bile is hidden. It was placed in the inside 
of your body to round you out a little. That’s all, 
you know; that’s what I think, anyway. The 
liver will never make a learned woman. Never! 
Never! Never! 

Now, whatever my liver looks like, whether it 
is fine or torpid, or what ails it, I shall not mur- 
mur if it keeps silent, that is, if it doesn’t cause 
me any pain ; it’s my brain I’m looking after. 

Girls who crave for beauty, may your desires 
be granted ! 

Girls who crave for married life, may some one 
ask you to wed them ! 

Girls who crave to be musicians, may you real- 
ize your dream ! 

Girls who aspire for fame as a woman of let- 
ters, may your desires be granted ! 

Girls who crave to be actresses, may you shine 
out as stars ! 

Girls who want to be famous artists, may your 
desires be granted ! 

Girls who aspire to be good housewives, may 
your desires be granted ! 

Girls who want to become anything above the 
ordinary run of humanity, may your desires be 
granted ! 

Little girl in Utah, who is constantly craving 
for fame, may your dream be realized. Ah ! yes, 
give that ambitious little girl one peep into the 
hall of fame ! Give every girl who longs for some- 
thing her heart’s desire. 

I only want my rights. Give every poor hungry 

ioo 


Cfte Oiarp of a Ota& <S>irl 

heart a little share of this world's goods, and I 
shall rejoice. We all want happiness and we all 
want wealth. 

My dear, good mother taught me not to be 
selfish. Never have I in my whole life caused 
that beautiful proud head of hers to be bowed in 
grief. But many a tear will flow when this diary 
comes out, poor soul ! But even to keep tears from 
her dear eyes I cannot withhold my diary. No. 
Not even to save her a heart pang can I give up 
fame. Oh, if I had wealth, poor hungry souls, 
you would not fear to come to me and tell me 
your wants ! I would see that you would not go 
away hungry. So many little bare feet would 
not be in existence if I had been born rich. 

March 9. 

Last night I passed a little child on the street ; 
she was only half clad, and I noticed she was cold. 
I stopped. I always do when anything attracts 
my attention, and I took her little cold hand in 
mine. 

I asked her what she was doing there, alone in 
the cold, and it seemed she was frightened, so 
she moved away. 

It touched my heart, the sight of this child. I 
went home, and all night I lay awake thinking of 
her and her condition. 

The night winds howled around my cottage 
home. They seemed to soothe me, and, oh, how 
I loved them ! They moaned as my soul so often 


IOI 


Cfie Diarp of a Otaft <Sitl 

moans when I am depressed. Oh, winds, if you 
would sigh on forever! 

It gladdens me to feel that something grieves 
with me, that something understands my weary, 
restless soul. 

I did not dream and so missed half my life. I 
love to dream. I crave for sleep to come over 
my eyelids so I can dream. 

It would kill me if I was living in a larger 
city and see so many poor little children starving 
and cold. I would steal them and carry them 
home. I have an honest, loving mother. Mother, 
oh, mother, you are the only one who understands 
my longings, the only one to look upon me with 
favor. 

If I were only rich ! 

I wonder what the people of wealth do with 
their money. Why don’t they aid the sick and 
suffering? Why don’t they help to keep those 
hungry waifs? What do the millionaires get for 
their money? If they fed a few of the hungry 
children running the "streets they would be hap- 
pier. 

Oh, devil, kind, vicious devil, make a few poor 
devils rich, so we can help other stricken ones ! 

March 11. 

My diary is becoming very monotonous. My 
life is like this diary. The longer I live the worse 
I hate myself. I am weary. World, when you are 
reading this diary, will you think it monotonous 
and cast it aside? If you do, remember, I, too, 

102 


Cfte Dtarp of a Otaft ®itl 

would cast my empty life aside and never murmur 
more. 

But it cannot close until I am called to the 
other side of the river, and then I shall go smil- 
ing. I would not sever my own life’s thread. 
Never! 

The older I get the worse I get, and when I am 
about thirty I shall be so weary that I will neither 
speak, walk or dream. Those pleasant, beautiful 
dreams of my red-haired sweetheart will be a 
thing of the past. Some one called on me and 
said, “Why, Mary MacLane is a thing of the 
past !” 

I stood up and said, “She is no more a thing of 
the past than you are ! She is equal to any girl in 
America,” and the person stopped suddenly. 

It astonished her. Ah, little Mary MacLane, I 
shall stick up for you and yours, no matter what. 

March 12. 

I was talking to a girl to-day who wants to be 
a heroine. Well, if you saw her ! The novelist 
that would picture her as a heroine would have a 
nail in his or her brain or would be sightless. 

Such a heroine! Nobody would admire her 
magnificent beauty. 

I am the heroine of this book, but this is my 
diary. 

I am talking about myself. I don’t ask a novel- 
ist to picture me at all. I am not a nice-looking 
girl. I am a plain-faced little genius, and I do 
not boast of beauty, for I haven’t any. 

103 


Cfte Dtarg of a Ota!) <2url 

I do not stand before a glass an hour or more 
to dress my hair. I do not stand there another 
hour to see if my corsets are tight enough. 

I do not occupy an hour to adjust my bustle. I 
do not smooth down my hips another hour before 
putting my dress skirt on. I am not foolish like 
that. 

I like to look nice when I go out, but I don’t 
care to spend all day getting dressed. I like to 
see a woman keep herself neat, but not to ex- 
tremes. 

I love style, but style does not require that we 
take all day to attire ourselves for the street. 

I hate a woman who stands before the mirror to 
admire her beautiful body! 

March 20. 

If it takes every book so long to appear as it 
has mine, it must be a rocky road the authors are 
given to travel. 

I wonder how it will be received when it makes 
its first appearance. Badly, I suppose. But if it 
does and the papers criticise it, damn them, any- 
way. 

March 31. 

I am very much interested in new writers. I 
watch the Sunday papers to see what new ones 
are added to the list. 

I like to read about new authoresses, too. I 
think all such news is very interesting, and I de- 

104 


Cjbe Diatg of a SltaJj <$irl 

light to lie down near the fire and read. There is 
nothing like being a warm baby. 

The whole world knows that ! 

July 3. 

I have taken a good vacation from my writing, 
and so I am going to resume it. I feel better 
than ever. I do not feel so much like writing as 
I used to feel. 

I still cling to my old profession and will until 
I shall have fame. I may then drop the study of 
writing and do something else. 

But it's as good as anything else nowadays. I 
do like to write when I have something to write 
about. 

But one cannot write always. I am going down 
to Salt Lake and see the temple once more. That 
fine statue is enough to inspire any woman, and 
it inspires me, though I do not admire the man’s 
character any more. 

I have not ceased to yearn for the famous hug. 
I do long for it as ardently as ever. Shall I 
ever get it ? That is the question. I can have it 
to-morrow if I want it. I have only to go to a 
Mormon and ask him for a hug. He will be 
willing to give me what I ask, but the Mormons 
would be in h before I’d ask such looking ob- 

jects to love me or hug me. When one is getting 
a hug, they might as well get a hug from a good- 
looking person as from a homely one. I think so, 
and although there are some very fine Mormons 

105 


Cfte Diarg of a 2Jta{) <2nrl 

here in Utah, I would not care to have any one 
of them to hug me. 

My diary is drawing to a close, and I am glad. 
Diaries are very tiresome to write. They must 
contain the solid truth and nothing more. So 
one can only write when something happens. 

It is far more interesting to write a novel than 
it is a poem or diary. 

One goes through the most trying scenes writ- 
ing a novel, but it is interesting, anyway. I like 
to tell about things that never took place. It 
seems more novel in every way. Oh, if my book 
would only appear, I should be delighted beyond 
expression. 

To-morrow is the Fourth. We always have a 
good time here on the Fourth of July. The Park- 
ites are not slow; when they get out for a good 
time they are right in it. 

July 29. 

Time has changed me dreadfully. I have de- 
cided to go to Portland, Oregon, and I am going, 
too. I am going in August, and if I don’t have a 
good time no one will. I will be out of miserable 
old Park City once more. 

August 23. 

Now I have started on my journey. I feel fine. 

I am glad to be on the train once more. I shall 
see new places and new people. That will be in- 
teresting for me. I like to be interesting, and I 
like to meet interesting people. 

106 


Cfjc Dtarp of a Sltaft <£>irl 

I hope that when I return I shall see my book 
before the public. 

August 26, Portland, Oregon. 

I am now settled in Portland. I do not like 
the climate at all. I hate it. One cannot go 
out without a mackintosh and rubber boots. They 
don’t wear them, but I say they ought to do so 
to preserve their health. 

The city itself is a fine place, and the people 
are very sociable. 

I do not intend to remain here long if I don’t 
get some material here for my work. 

September 8. 

One never knows the good of a home until you 
are away, and then you can see the great differ- 
ence. I am lonesome, oh, very lonesome. What 
people I have met are very common, and I don’t 
care much for them. 

They are ignorant and very stupid. One can 
quickly perceive that they were lowly raised. I 
like high-bred people, and outside of well-bred 
people, I never form an acquaintance. Become 
acquainted with some folks, and they bore you to 
death. I would not be bored for any one’s sake. 
If I don’t like people, I tell them I do not like 
them. That is a good idea, and one has not so 
many enemies. At present I have not an enemy 
in the world. I have not a single enemy, but 
soon I shall have all kinds of them. Wait until 
my book appears and then I shall count them by 

107 


C{je Diarp of a Otaf) <2>itl 

the bushel instead of in twos and threes. But 
welcome, enemies, you are as welcome as the flow- 
ers in May. 

September 10. 

I haven’t a friend who wouldn’t act as I am 
acting now. Your friends will not keep you. I 
know if I were penniless I would not be shown 
any kindness by a living soul in Park City. Look 
to yourself and your own comfort before you look 
to others. 

October 31. 

When one is going around a new city to have a 
good time there is not much to write in one’s 
diary. 

I neglect it, but as it is so near to closing I 
don’t mind it. And I am intending to go home 
at an early date. 

I am sick and tired of Portland. I hate it ! I 
hate it ! I hate it ! 

November 21. 

Home again. How sweet it sounds to be home ! 
Yes, I am home again. I am glad Fo be home, 
and shall remain home for a whole year. That 
does not seem long does it ? But it is a long time 
to stay in one place. It is for the Utah genius, 
for she is on the trains half her time. I enjoy 
life a great deal. I like to travel, once a year at 
least. There are some who say I should not 
spend so much time in traveling/but I do like to 

108 


Cfie Diarg of a Otai) <2H'rl 

travel, and while I’ve got the money I am going 
to travel. I’m naturally observing. 

People wonder when I am studying their feat- 
ures what I am looking at, I expect, but I am nat- 
urally observative. I like to study character. I 
do not like vulgar people in my presence, espe- 
cially women folks. Men are men, but let women 
keep their places. Let them keep their places ! 

December 1. 

A year has rolled by quickly, and I am not a 
step nearer to my fame than I was this time last 
year. My diary is not finished, my book is not 
published, and I am as bad off as ever. I don’t 
care ; some year will bring me fame, and whenever 
it comes it is welcome. Oh, fame, fame, I shall 
some day call you my very own, and if I do, oh, 
the joy of it! 

Did little Mary MacLane crave for fame as I 
am craving for it? Did her heart yearn as mine 
is yearning now? Did she weep as I have wept? 
She is charitable. I know that because she fa- 
vored an old woman with some palms she had 
bought with stolen money. Little Mary is char- 
itable, and I love her. 

She must have waited and longed for fame as 
I am longing now. She must have wept, too, for 
she had the feelings of a peculiar genius. 

Do all girls possessed of remarkable genius 
long for solitude? 

Do they love retirement and hate the stillness 
of their study broken? 

109 


€fie Diatg of a Otaft <Strl 

Surely they must. Were I a man I should like 
to marry a genius. I would like to watch them 
when the mind is working. The face must be- 
come beautiful when a lovely thought steals over 
the mind of an author. A terrible look must come 
on my face when I write, and hard lines mark 
my forehead. I look like a genius. No living, 
breathing soul to look at me would take me for a 
plain scholar. I have the look of a genius. A 
person well educated themselves would know I 
was a born genius. I have that look of study on 
my face. I have that dreary, solemn look which 
generally accompanies genius, and so from the 
time I was a little girl I longed to write. Once 
in school, I wrote two poems. I showed them to 
my teacher. 

"Why,” said she, “I read those before.” 

But she never did. No living being ever read 
them, and I lost my courage at the early age of 
thirteen, and never gave a thought to writing 
again. 

Had she encouraged me, I would have been a 
recognized author long before I am. Now if I 
ever had a little daughter, and I saw a spark of 
genius in her, I would cultivate that genius. First, 
I would learn in what way her genius ran, that is, 
whether she was given to sentiment, humor, or 
any other order. 

I could tell if a child is gifted in a moment. 
They are quiet, retiring and modest. They do not 
run around like other children. They are observ- 
ative and inquisitive. They want to inquire and 


no 


Cf )t Diarg of a CJtaj) <©irl 

know the details of everything. When company 
calls at the home, they want to go away and think 
about something else. They are never idle. If 
their destiny is to be a novelist of a sentimental 
order, they are great for listening to stories, love 
stories, and they love music and song. 

Now, after I found out the child’s sentiments, 
I would take her to the place her little heart 
could be touched. If she loved to look at the 
beautiful, she could be shown the grandest things 
in the world. I would sing to her; she would 
have musical accomplishments and all that she de- 
sired. Her mind would develop quickly and she 
would produce fine work when the time came for 
her to give forth unto the world her remarkable 
genius. 

When I hear a fine air being rendered on the 
piano, I run to listen. I stand out in the coldest 
night air until it is over, and then I might write 
two or more chapters of a book. My diary does 
not need inspiration. 

Neither does Mary MacLane. 

But genius must be cultivated and it generally 
is. 

When I was quite a child, my sister always took 
good care of me. She used to inspire me with 
lovely thoughts. And she was so solemn looking ! 
Her pretty dark face haunts me now, when I 
speak of her. She was the angel of my life, but 
now she does not think the mind of her little dark 
sister is soiled with many bad thoughts. But it is. 

I remember a time when it was as clear as an 


ill 


Cfie Diarg of a Otaf) <©itl 

angel’s, but now I possess the mind of a devil, 
and I own up to it. 

Ah, Anna darling, forgive me for my bad 
thoughts, for you never wished me to write like 
this. Forgive me for craving for fame; it is only 
a human desire, and why shouldn’t I crave? 

If you were here, sweetest sister, you would tell 
me to write of those beautiful things I longed for. 
Now I long for nothing but fame. I would give 
my beautiful hands and my refinements up for 
fame. I would give my long, brown hair for 
fame. . But fame says no ! It cannot be purchased 
thus; it must be given only when genius is ex- 
hibited, and I have been generous in exhibiting 
mine. 

Fame, fame, fame, why be so long coming my 
way? I want fame and glory, and I shall have 
it, I shall, indeed! 

December 21. 

This time last year I was killing myself clean- 
ing for the holidays. I will not this time. I am 
going to take a back seat. I am tired of working. 
I don’t see any good in cleaning for Christmas. I 
haven t any Johnny Jump Up coming to see me, 
and I don’t care whether the house looks fine or 
dirty. 

What matters it to me? I can write as well in 
the dirt and better than I can when it’s clean. So 
I don’t care. 

.This time last year I was ambitious because I 


II 2 


Cfre SDiarp of a Otaj) <Snrl 

expected that another year would bring me fame 
and glory. 

I am as far from it as ever. I will never be 
satisfied. Something will be sure to turn against 
me and life will seem a miserable wreck. 

Life is a lonely dream for us all, the rich and 
the poor. 

If I craved wealth, I would be satisfied were I 
disappointed. But I crave only fame, and that 
does not always bring wealth. 

I do not care for the pecuniary part, though I 
should like to own a little fortune of my own; 
but I would like notoriety. 

It seems so foolish at times for my cravings to 
be so great. But I cannot help it. 

When a mother gives birth to a child, does she 
not love it? 

Does she not build up hopes for its future? 
When it is growing to childhood her plans are 
laid, and she thinks her child is the handsomest 
child in the world and the very best. She wants 
to see it grow up nicely, and so it is with a genius 
craving for fame. 

The genius looks forward to the time when 
the fruit of his brain will give him a great name. 
It is the same in comparison. The books are the 
author’s children. 

December 29. 

The old year is nearly at an end. 

Thank myself for having progressed so far 

113 


Cfje Di arp of a CItaf) <Snrl 

without stopping in my diary, but I am getting 
along nicety. 

Good-by, old year ; I have had a good time this 
year, but, alas! I am no nearer to fame. 

January 1, 1904. 

Welcome, 1904. 

What are you going to bring me, New Year? 
Are you going to appease my longings for fame 
or are you going to treat me ill ? 

The old year has been kind to me. I have not 
shed one tear since 1902. Shall I have cause to 
shed bitter tears this year ? I will not shed bitter 
ones; they will be sweet. 

Welcome, 1904, and I hope you will bring me 
fame ! 

January 2. 

Last night I dreamed that I was famous. I 
was walking in my dreams past crowded streets, 
and on every fence and wall was hung a piece of 
paper bearing my name. 

Hanorah Coughlin! Hanorah Coughlin! Ha- 
norah Coughlin! Hanorah Coughlin! I read that 
name, my very own, everywhere I walked. I was 
not happy. I saw my name written in glory, but 
when fame was mine, I knelt down and repented 
for having written my bad diary ; I was not happy. 
That dream makes me think of many things. If 
I realize fame, will I be happy? Oh, when my 
ambition is realized, will I be miserable? Will I 
some day turn my dark, sad face towards the blue 

XI 4 



Hanorah Coughlin, Hanorah Coughlin, Hanorah Coughlin, 
I read that name, my very own, everywhere I walked. 

(Diary of a Utah Girl.) — P. 114. 
















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Cfic Dtarg of a SJtafj <Sitl 

firmament and wish I had raised my heart to 
Heaven long before ? 

Would Heaven be kinder to me than Lucifer 
has been? No, I shall keep my darling. Nothing 
could turn me against him. Lucifer, when I am 
dying, 1 shall love thee. No, my dark, sad eyes 
shall never be turned upward. 

Fame, if you kill me, come to me anyway. I 
want fame if I die the next minute after getting 
it ; I want it, I want it, I want it ! 

January 20. 

My diary is closing all too soon. I don’t want 
it to close. Perhaps it is best. It will not bore 
any one to read the contents of this book. Oh, if 
my “Strange Fates, or Detta,” would only appear, 
I would be glad, so glad. 

I have not any more hopes of it coming out 
than I did last month. I want this to appear 
soon, and it is going to. It is the only thing that 
will bring me the fame I crave, and I want fame ! 

January 28. 

To-day has brought me joy. I received in a box 
addressed tb me twenty-five books, and it is all the 
fruit of my own brain. 

I gazed upon the book neatly bound, with love. 
I pressed it to my heart and kissed it. It is my 
first novel. And it is prettily bound in nil e green. 
I am pleased with it and yet so surprised. 

Welcome, 1904; you have brought me joy, but 
not fame. 


Cfje IDiarp of a Otaj) <SMtl 

January 30. 

The reporters have interviewed me. Ah, the 
joy of being an authoress! One reporter asked 
me how I felt as an authoress. I feel like I felt 
before, with my fingers and toes. I do not feel a 
bit different. In one paper, the “Park City 
Miner/ 5 appeared the following : 

PARK CITY HAS AN AUTHORESS. 

Park City can proudly boast of an authoress, and justly 
so, for Miss Hanorah Coughlin has just received word that 
her book, entitled “Strange Fates, or Detta,” has been 
published and put upon the market, and the volume, with- 
out doubt, will soon rank with such works as “The Vir- 
ginian’’ and other late successful novels. 

The story itself, as its title suggests, is a story of love 
and tragedy, and the scenes are laid in Buffalo, New York, 
and, as the story progresses, takes one to England, and in 
a most charming fanner shows us the lowly beauty of Eng- 
lish home life. 

Miss Hanorah Cdughlin, who is only twenty years of age. 
Is well known in Park, having lived here since her infancy. 
She was born in Salt Lake, but came to Park with her 
parents when but a mere child. She has always been of an 
observative mind, and when but a little girl noticed charac- 
ters in those she met from day to day, and these are por- 
trayed in the people of her story. 

She wrote the book when but eighteen years of age, and 
in her preface says : “It contains my youthful labors, and 
when the world will know I number only eighteen years, it 
may draw back its criticisms to a certain degree and ap- 
preciate with more kindness the value of this volume.” 

I liked that little piece. It sounds nice, and it 
does not criticise my book harshly. It upholds it, 
but, oh, what will this same paper say when my 
bad diary appears ! 

It will rip me up the back, but I do not care 
what it does. Let it do so \ it has spoken well for 
me this time. 


116 


Cfje Di'atg of a (Utafi <£H'cI 

February 2. 

I never was so mad in my life as I am to-day. 
When I think of the people’s meanness I hate 
them. They do not know what it is to have a 
genius in their midst. And true it is they have 
one. I am one now and the world cannot help but 
recognize my genius. 

In the little volume, “Strange Fates, or Detta,” 
are many beautiful thoughts. One would never 
think that the author of that book and this diary 
are one and the same person. 

But it is so. Hanorah Coughlin’s wonderful 
mind has written them both, and as I have, my 
name will be annexed to them. Though this 
diary is bad it is going to bear my name right on 
the title page. 

I have not received a congratulation from one 
of my friends. How strange it all seems ! Ho 
one has wished me luck with my little green book. 
But I have wished myself good luck. Damn the 
people of Park City ; they can’t read, anyway ! 

February 10. 

The excitement of my book’s appearance is 
gradually wearing away. A few more days and 
it will be over. But wait until my bad diary ap- 
pears, and then I shall have popularity and fame. 
They might buy my diary. Curiosity, you know, 
prompts one to get married sometimes, when there 
are no other attractions to be had. 

So it might be with my book. Some one might 

ii 7 


C&e Diatg of a Otaft <®t'rl 

be prompted to buy it for curiosity alone. When 
they read it, they will say, “That girl doesn’t 
know her own mind.” But I do. He who says I 
know not my own mind lies. I do know it, as 
well as those fools in Park City. I am educated, 
and I know it. I am a genius, and I know it. I 
am a sad, dreary girl, when alone, but I know it. 
Over my face hangs a shadow, I cannot under- 
stand, but I know it. 

It is a shadow of an early death or a life of 
misery. Which it is I cannot say, but it is either 
one of these. Sometimes when I look at my face 
in the mirror, I stand back in horror, for in my 
eyes is a most pathetic expression. It is not al- 
ways there, only at times when I am in deep 
study, and it annoys me. I do not like that look. 
I would like to have a happy face, but it is sad, 
despite my efforts to keep it cheerful. 

I am sad looking, but I have no reason to be 
sad. I have had a good life of it so far. I have 
had a good home; every desire I express mama 
hastens to gratify, but I am sad. Only at the 
hour of death shall I know what brought the sad 
look into my dark eyes and the melancholy ex- 
pression across my mouth. 

My mouth has as sad an expression as my eyes. 
In repose, my face must be miserably sad! I 
envy other girls when I see them laughing and en- 
joying themselves. Somehow I have never 
laughed from my heart. My lips may smile, but 
that does not light up my face, like it does the 
faces of other girls. If my life is going to be 

118 


Cfte Dfarp of a Ota!) ©frl 

wretched, I will take it meekly, and live it quietly 
away from every living soul. 

February 11. 

An author’s life is not as sweet as it was in my 
estimation a few months ago. Now, it is a war- 
fare upon earth. I cannot think so much about 
my adorable sweetheart. I do not get the time to 
give him the thought I should, but’ wait, darling 
Lucifer, I shall some day find time to love you all 
I want to. 

Worry is the author’s punishment. Damn me 
for having become an author, anyway ! 

February 20. 

I am more wretched to-day than I have ever 
been in my life. I received a review from the 
publishers of my book. It reads : 

Strange Fates , or Detta, by Hanorah Coughlin. 

Imagine an invalid, whose solace is the singing of 
"Juanita,” imagine a story full of such names as Detta 
Lamont, Violet Forest, Helena St. Clair, and a story that 
rambles all around from Buffalo to Nashville, via London, 
and introduces in its two hundred and some pages every 
sort of interest, Protestant and Catholic, and you have only 
a modest idea of this story. Truly, it’s awful. 

That was published by the Pittman Herald in 
New Brunswick, New York. 

Well, that is a hot one all right! It hurt me 
at first, but I laughed myself into good humor 
again. The Pittman Herald should learn to spell 
correctly before they go putting reviews in news- 
papers. It would be far better if they would. I 

119 


Cfte Diarg of a Sltai) <2url 

have not written it like they did; that is, I have 
not spelled the names like they did. I corrected 
the mistakes of a fool editor, and I damn him for 
criticising my book. 

Old Pittman Herald, you have criticised my 
work, my very first book, and you shall criticise 
my diary, but, damn you, old Pittman Herald , 
criticise my diary as you will, but for Heaven’s 
sake, spell the words in my diary correctly, or if 
you don’t I shall call you down as you have never 
been called down before. 

Damn the Pittman Herald , anyway! 

February 23. 

Life at its best is an empty dream. Who says it 
is not tells lies. It is a damnable dream. Those 
who know life in its truest phase will admit I am 
correct in speaking as I do. Misery awaits us at 
every door. Death is the only joy. 

Death, death, death, you are the only joy we 
know ! 

February 28. 

I never longed to be a good, pure girl before, 
but I do now. I do not love any one, it is true, 
but the looks of those angel faces make me weep. 
Had my life been different I would not have writ- 
ten this bad diary. 

If the sweet story I wrote was received with 
more pleasure I would Rave kept this book back 
from the cruel world. My innocent, sad face 
would appeal to the world if they might get one 


120 


Cfje IDtatp of a CtJtafj <2url 

glimpse of it. But no, old world, my picture shall 
not appear in this bad diary. No ! No ! No ! 

I may be glad, I admit I am, but my picture 
shall not be the cause of gossip, and half the world 
will never know what kind of features I have got. 

I am not homely. I know I am not. Still, I 
am not good looking. 

Damn the looks of humans! What will looks 
bring us? Nothing. As the finger of time is laid 
upon our brows, we lose our transparent beauty, 
and the fair brows become wrinkled, the eyes 
sunken, the cheeks pallid, the willowy forms 
droop, and the beauty of other days is forgotten. 
There is nothing left to tell you have been lovely. 

The intellectual soul has its beauty until the 
life has gone out. 

Beauty will fade, and when death comes no 
word is left to tell you have been beautiful. Give 
to me the mind of intellect. World, go mad over 
a woman’s beauty, but let me go mad over intel- 
lect. I love to look at an intellectual face. 

The high brow is the stamp of intellect. The 
sensitive mouth and thoughtful eyes tell of the 
soul’s intellect. Ah, in my estimation, intellect is 
by far the greatest beauty the world owns. There 
is nothing so grand as to sit and converse with an 
intellectual person and find that behind the ex- 
pansive brow, upon which they gaze, there is a 
world of beauty. 

I never gaze at a stranger; I look into their 
eyes. If they have a silly look and not a thought- 
ful, sensitive look, I do not care to meet them. 


121 


Cfte Diarp of a ftJtafj <Sirl 

But when I find that a person has a noble look, 
noble, high-souled ways, I nearly go mad over him. 
I have never met a person yet who has my stand- 
ard of perfection. They have not possessed fine 
ways. 

I love refinement and know, world, though my 
diary is not a fine one, it was written by a little 
girl who possesses true qualities of refinement. In 
society I can act grandly. When I am on the 
street I know my place, and act as every modest 
girl should act. I never raise my eyes to see if 
any one is watching me. I never think it looks 
strange for a young girl to walk with an old man 
or woman. I respect old age. We must all wither 
and pine as we near the sunset of our lives. I 
would rather kiss an old woman than all the girls 
in the world. I will be old and withered some 
day; when I see an old person, I think of the day 
when my brown hair shall be turned to gray, my 
fresh young face be wrinkled. I will then want 
some one to assist me and some one to like me. 

Well, I don’t exactly want some one to like me, 
but I would like to be respected. I will be pointed 
out as the girl who wrote the bad diary, and then, 
oh, then what shall I be? Will I be a famous 
woman ere my life closes ? If I don’t, damn fame ! 

March 2. 

Last night I heard a lovely solo, and I listened 
attentively. It was “When the Harvest Days Are 
Over.” I listened to it, and as I did I thought of 
my own life. 


122 


C| )e Diatg of a CJtal) ©frl 

Every girl has in her biography a story of love. 
Here is a little girl who will never have such. 
And why ? Because I love the life of a girl. I do 
not like man company. 

I would hate to think of my life being spent 
with a man. Eat at the same table with him, let 
him come into my study when he wanted, and 
read my unpublished work, oh, I could not stand 
that. 1 hate men. 

They are all right for those who enjoy their 
company, but I could not enjoy it. I like to look 
at my life in this way. When I am old I can 
look at my girlhood days and see not a blot on my 
name. There will be no love stories in connec- 
tion with my quiet, simple life. I will be just as 
happy as I can be. Picture a little old lady sit- 
ting in the lamplight in a fine home, her white 
head bending over her work, specs on her once 
bright eyes and her once beautiful hands folded 
meekly on her lap, and over her intellectual mind 
steals dreams of days when she was ambitious for 
fame. She has never had a lover. She does not 
pine over her lost loves. Pier life has been that of 
a bird’s, or, better, a flower, for flowers do not 
wed. And she smiles. She has her ambition real- 
ized. ’Tis the sunset of her years. 

My years, mine, mine! Oh, peaceful, happy 
life, stay with me, stay; I am not willing to let 
you go, and when the above illustration comes to 
pass, I shall be glad, for my name will be famous, 
and fame is everything. 

123 


Cfte Diarp of a 2Jta& 

March 3. 

I was leaning my head on my hand, looking 
over the distant hills, when my future loomed up 
before me. I saw myself as I will be some day. 
I saw my funeral cortege going to the cemetery, 
but it did not make me sad. Ah, how vividly I 
can portray my future without the slightest feel- 
ing of regret. I love to look down the long vista 
of years and see my future. I love to, I love to, 
I love to ! 

March 4. 

< They tell me death is bitter. That it hurts to 
die. Surely the pains of death cannot be so ter- 
rible as they picture them. I cannot understand 
life, but I can death. I think a birth is the most 
sorrowful event in the life of a human. 

Life may be sad, but death is beautiful. 

Watch a person dying, and if you do, you will 
notice how calm and resigned he becomes in the 
last moments of his life. 

See a little child come into the world and the 
first thing you hear is a yell. That means what 
its life was given it for, to yell. 

I never feel grieved when I see a dead person. 

I feel glad, for I know he is happy. Whether it 
will be hell or Heaven, death is best. 

Those who read my diary will never think that 
I entertain one lovely thought. I do not. Some- 
times I look up at the moon, and I sigh when I 
think how many silly things it witnesses— lovers 

124 


Cfte SMarp of a Otaf) <Surl 

kissing each other, and asking the girls to wed. 
Oh, how many silly things there are in the world ! 

Life is not made up of love stories. No, I say 
it is not. Some day I am going lecturing and I 
shall tell the girls who assemble to listen to me 
that life is not made up of love stories and non- 
sense. 

I do not affirm that love is nothing but non- 
sense. There is a love and a true lasting love, but 
do not think you can live on it. 

I love old maids. I am going to be one. They 
are like the flowers that never wed. 

I do not believe in sickly women marrying. I 
do not believe in that at all. I pity a sickly wife. 
I would not get married were I a sickly woman. 
Never, never, never! 

The man who marries a woman who is sickly is 
a fool, fool, fool! 

I asked an old maid why she never got mar- 
ried. “Why,” she replied, “it takes two to get 
married. If no one axes you, how can you wed ?” 

Some of the men are only broomsticks with 
pants on, anyway. 

March 12. 

I shall soon have every man in the country 
damning me. Let them damn me; they will not 
damn much. I will not care for I am bound for 
hell, anyway. 

March 20. 

I know what my destiny is, and I have no re- 

125 


Cfie Diarg of a ftltalj <£>irl 

grets. Damn the regrets of human beings ! Why 
should we murmur, anyway ! 

April 29. 

The winter is past. The cold stormy days are 
over. Now, the earth is fresh with the near ap- 
proach of summer. April in Park City is delight- 
ful. The trees are bursting forth, and the sky is 
blue and clean. The hills are green and lovely. 
I love April. It is my favorite month. I love it, 
for then the little birds are singing high up in 
the treetops and all nature is reposing. 

What will the summer months bring me ? 
Nothing. I know it will be years before I can 
have fame. But patience brings perseverance, and 
I shall persevere, though my trials may be bitter. 
I shall be a great woman yet. It is my highest 
ambition to be great, and I shall be great, too. 

My career must be great! I say it must be, 
and it will. 

May 1. 

I hate May. Though it is a nice month, I 
wish it would never come. I remember one May 
morning we school girls went for a walk, and we 
skipped away from school. When we got back we 
got a terrible whipping. My beautiful hands 
were red and blistered. I remember I cried and 
I got another sound whipping for crying. Now, 
I hate her who dared to whip me. How dare she 
hurt my soft, white hands ! 

126 


Cfie Diarp of a Otaft <sn'd 

Ever since then, I hate the month of May. It 
is a mean thing to hate it, but I do. 

June 8. 

The month of roses. It is the sweetest month 
of the year. This month will finish my life in 
Park City, and I am glad it will. I hate Park 
City and its inhabitants. Welcome, June; I am 
glad you are here. 

June 29. 

This very day will witness my departure for 
the capital. I may come back to visit, but that 
will be all. Old hills that have watched me grow 
from childhood to girlhood, I leave you now, but 
without regrets. Skies that have watched my 
slumbers, I leave you. Good-by ! 

Streets upon which I have trodden, I shall walk 
on you no more. Farewell, Park City; you have 
treated me cruelly. Farewell, distant hills ! Many 
times I have watched you. Farewell, dear school- 
house ! Many a happy moment in sweet, innocent 
girlhood, I have spent under your protecting roof. 

Farewell, little homestead ! You have sheltered 
me many golden hours, hours I may never know 
again. Farewell, green trees! Many times you 
have seen me weep when I sought your shelter 
from the noonday sun. 

Farewell, farewell, sweet homestead ! Other 
feet will tread your floors. Oh, fount of tears! 
Let me weep, let me lay my dark head on the 
bough of an old tree and weep. I am going away 

127 


C&e Diarp of a CHtal> <£tfrl 

from the beauty of my childhoods home. Oh, 
therefore, let me weep ! 

Salt Lake City, Utah, June 30. 

I am in Salt Lake now, but I am in misery. I 
do not like the hustle and bustle of hotel life. I 
am afraid if I were condemned to live such a life 
I would lose my genius. I must avoid anything 
that would destroy that, and I certainly will. 

I have a strange fascination for literary pur- 
suits. I am mad over literature. I crave for 
fame as a great woman of letters. Other writers 
have had brilliant names in the firmament of lit- 
erature, and so will I. If the world doesn’t rec- 
ognize my genius in this diary, I shall cheerfully 
sit down and compose a new book. I will write 
until my fame is realized, then I shall write no 
more. 

World, you cannot down me ! All the criti- 
cisms of the Pittman Herald cannot down my 
great spirit. If you down me once, I shall rise 
up again. I shall scream until I am heard. 

The little Utah genius has spirit that cannot 
be taken from her. Throw her into the mud, and 
she would climb out and again shine out bril- 
liantly. 

Cast my diary aside and I will write something 
like it again until you will have to award me my 
own true merits ! 

June 30, Evening. 

Night in the beautiful city of Salt Lake — the 
128 


C&e Dtarg of a Altai) ©itl 

Mormon city of the West. The sky is clear and 
numberless stars are shining forth in the heavens. 
How my sad heart yearns to be alone, and I am 
not. As I sit at the Knutsford Hotel window, I 
see many crowds passing to and fro. They all 
seem to be happy but me. I am the most miser- 
able one of all earth’s creatures. 

My heart’s desires are great. I long for fame, 
wealth and glory. 

Other hearts are happy, others’ lips are smiling, 
why can’t mine be, too? To-morrow I am going 
up to the Temple grounds and sit down and write. 
If I can’t get inside the Temple, I can at least in- 
spect its exterior. 

I guess there isn’t so many great things to be 
seen inside, though. 

A Mormon lady told me once that it is deco- 
rated beautifully with pictures and that the floors 
are covered with white velvet carpets. How beau- 
tiful its interior must be ! 

Where is the Gentile who wouldn’t like to get 
a peep inside it? 

July 1. 

Now it is the warm month of July. One could 
roast chickens on the pavements here in Salt Lake 
— if he had the money to buy the chickens with. 

A day seems like a year to me, I do not know 
why. I guess it is because I haven’t a thing to 
do. Well, I cannot help that. I sleep nearly all 
day. 

I am going up to the Temple this very moment 
129 


Ct )t Diarg of a fKtafc ©irl 

and write my impressions there for a part of the 
day. 

Afternoon. 

Here I am in the grounds of the great Mor- 
mon tabernacle. I can sit here and see the Tem- 
ple which owes it origin to the famous hugger. 

When I sit here and look at the Temple, I won- 
der why it is no Gentile can enter its doors. But 
they can’t. Only good Mormons dare step inside. 

I know they are very particular when they are 
marrying. 

There is a room for everything to take place 
in, different ceremonies, I mean. There is a room 
to bathe in, so I am told; a room to marry in, 
and to change underwear in, etc. Of course this 
has been told me; I have not been an eye-witness 
to it. 

If I were a Mormon and had to go through all 
those ceremonies, I would ask my fellows to come 
away and get married in the county clerk’s office. 

There we would join hands and sing the grand 
old song! 

They have a grand choir, too, but one is apt 
to fall asleep listening to the preacher. I remem- 
ber once I went to a Mormon funeral up home in 
Park City; if that funeral didn’t last two hours, 
it didn’t last one. 

I was sick of it. 

It is so solemnly quiet here and I am alone. I 
love to be alone. I cap think better and write my 
impressions better. 


130 


Cfte Diarp of a ©ta& <S5itl 

I will not linger too long in the magnificent 
grounds of the great Temple, lest it might convert 
my devilish soul. 

And I don’t want to be converted; I don’t, I 
don’t, I don’t! 

July 3. 

At last I have removed to quiet apartments in 
the western part of the city, and I am contented, 
too. It is beautiful around here, and the trees 
are tall, green and shady. I hate the busy part of 
Salt Lake, and I believe every one does, too. 

Such crowds go out to the lake ! I do not un- 
derstand how they can be going all the time. It 
would weary me. Mingling with crowds day after 
day would so disturb my mind that I would go 
insane surely. 

I cannot understand the lives of some people. 
They have empty ones, and they know it not. 
They are continually on the go. I do not like to 
see people sit in the house all the time, but they 
should not be on the go at all times and seasons. 
They spend their lives in idleness, then die, and 
are forgotten. 

But my life will not be spent likewise. I shall 
have something by which to be remembered, and 
if the world forgets me, damn it, anyway ! 

If the world forgets me, it will forget 'itself. 
How can it forget me? My diary will be suffi- 
cient to make them remember me, for it will be in 
existence, and that will be sufficient to keep me in 
memory. 


£f)e Diarg of a Otafj <$icl 

July 4. 

The Fourth of July in Salt Lake City, Utah, 
is the slowest day of the year. Seems like the 
Mormons regard it as a Holy Day of Obligation. 
Salt Lake City, September 1. 

This morning I walked out to the Temple 
grounds again, but of course I could not get in. 
The large gates where visitors are usually admit- 
ted were closed. 

It made me angry, but I took a good look in 
there, anyway, and then walked further on. I 
walked up as far as the Lion house, one of Brig- 
ham’s old homes. 

It is a peculiar structure. It seems to me that 
every window along the side of the house gave 
light to the apartments of Brigham’s many wives. 
Over the door is a Lion. That is why it is called 
the Lion house. 

A gentleman came along, and he noticed my 
puzzled look, and so approached me. 

“Good morning, Miss,” he said; “taking in the 
sights of Brigham Street?” 

I looked up at him, dazed for a moment, and 
then cast my eyes down in a state of confusion. 

“Well, yes,” said I. “I was just wondering if 
Brigham Young and his many wives all lived in 
this one house?” 

He looked at me for a moment, and I saw the 
shadow of a smile cross his lips. Then, when he 
recovered from his confusion, he replied: 

“I believe it is so. I think the windows along 

132 


Cfie Dtatg of a Otaft <2Hrl 

the side of the house belong to the rooms of Brig- 
ham’s wives. And they are many. By the way, 
Miss,” he said, “are you a Mormon?” 

“Me a Mormon!” I screamed, and every one 
must have heard me. 

“Yes,” he replied, “are you a Mormon?” 

“I would no t be a Mormon,” I screamed again 
in terror. “Why I should be in the jail every 
day.” 

“Why?” he questioned. 

“Because, if I caught my husband with an- 
other woman I would thrash them severely. I 
will never be anything but a Gentile.” 

“You are a man hater,” he told me when he 
had looked at me for a moment. 

I suppose I did look like a man hater at that 
moment. 

“Oh, no,” said I, “I am a man lover” 

At this answer he walked away, laughing. 

But the little genius walked slowly up and 
down the street of Brigham. 

At last I saw it was of no use looking at the 
Lion house all day, so I walked further on to the 
Beehive Cottage. 

I mentioned this place in the early part of my 
story, but did not say what it looked like, or why 
it was called the “Beehive Cottage.” 

Well, it has a Beehive on the roof of it, looks 
like Brigham’s brains laid up there for safe keep- 
ing. 

I guess he must have had different brains from 
133 


C&e Diatg of a CItab 

other men, for he was an unusual person in every 
respect. 

That was one of his wives’ homes, too. 

Farther up the street I came upon an old 
woman who was sitting down near her doorstep. 
She looked so lonely I saluted her. She came to 
the little fence and sat on an old block of wood. 

I leaned my arm on the fence and made myself 
comfortable. 

“You are a stranger here,” she said, taking hold 
of my little, soft, white hand. 

“Yes, I have not been here very long, but know 
the city quite well,” and I smiled in return. 

“Do you live along this street anywhere?” she 
asked. 

“No, I live on Fourth West, down by the 0. S. 
L. depot. But I like the looks of those homes. 
They appear so ancient, and I am told that most 
of them once sheltered the great Mormon, Brig- 
ham Young. Was he not a glorious character in 
every respect?” 

“Did you hear much of him, child? Why, he's 
the greatest saint in Heaven! We are all saints 
you know,” she told me. “We are called the ‘Lat- 
ter-day Saints/ and our place in the Kingdom of 
Heaven is the highest and best. Do you like the 
Mormons ?” 

“Yes,” said I; “I am a great admirer of Brig- 
ham Young, but have always failed to get a favo?- 
able story of his very great works. I wish I could 
meet with some one who knew him, but that seems 
almost impossible?” 


134 


C6e Diatp of a Otaj) &iil 

a Let me tell you of his wonderful work, child. 
I am pleased with you, child. You are so sweet. 
Do let me tell you of the founder of our church.” 

“I will listen to you, if you will be so kind as 
to tell me,” I said, and she then invited me into 
her yard and gave me a seat next to hers. 

Her story began, but it is too long to relate in 
my little diary. It satisfied my desire to know a 
little more of this great Apostle. 

Her story was not very clear in many parts, un- 
intelligible, you know, for she was of foreign 
birth. I believe she was Swedish, but a real nice 
old lady. This much of her story I deem it im- 
portant to tell : 

“And, my child,” she went on to say, “Brigham 
Young made beautiful services for the church. 
Once every year those who pay their tidings (a 
rule of the Mormon church requiring every mem- 
ber to give them ten cents out of every dollar they 
earn daily, and unless such is given they are not 
in good standing, nor will they be permitted to 
go through the temple at any time of the year) 
may go through the temple. They must be garbed 
in spotless white, even to their shoes and under- 
wear, so that they will be clean and pure when 
they enter the Temple of God. And it is so beau- 
tiful to go through the ceremony. It makes one 
feel like going to Heaven, where everything must 
be grand and pure. And good Mormons are pure, 
you know,” she stopped to say to me, and I sup- 
posed she was waiting for an answer, to which I 
replied, “Certainly ” 


135 


Cfie Diatp of a Otaft ©ftl 

"And the marriage ceremony is so grand,” she 
went on to say. 

I did not pretend to notice her, so I said, "Do 
the Mormons carry their white robes to the church, 
or do they leave them at the Temple until they 
go again? Perhaps they paste numbers on them 
so there will be no mistakes ?” 

"Oh, no,” she said hurriedly. "They do not. 
They take them home and bring them back each 
and every time they go through the great Temple. 
They bring them rolled up in a bundle and put 
them on in the Temple. Do you like that cere- 
mony ?” 

"No,” I frankly acknowledged, but I smiled so 
6he would not be offended. 

"Now about the marriage ceremony?” I ques- 
tioned. 

"Oh, it is beautiful!” she exclaimed; “beauti- 
ful/" and her hands were clasped as if in ecstasy. 

"Tell me a little about it,” said I. 

"Oh, I cannot. Miss, tell you anything about 
that ceremony. IPs secret.” 

I took the old woman’s hands in mine, and 
said: 

"I shall not tell it to any one, dear.” 

"You will not tell it to any one, will you?” 

"Never, in words!” I said, and I am keeping 
my promise. I am writing, not telling it to the 
public. 

Well , 9 said she, "the first thing the young 
couple must do is to repair to the bathroom in 
the Temple and bathe themselves, so that they 

136 


Cfte iDi'atp of a (fttaft <£>irl 

may be clean before God and man.” Here I 
smiled. It was irresistible. 

" And what then ?” I said. 

“Then,” she went on to say, "they attire them- 
selves in spotless underwear. Oh, no,” she has- 
tily corrected herself. "They are obliged to go 
before the president of the church nude.” She 
did not say nude, but the right word, but I shall 
say nude. I gasped for breath. It was the worst 
I had ever heard yet. Bad and all as I am, I 
would not do that. I would sooner die ! 

"You look frightened,” the old lady said, noting 
how pale my face had turned at her words. 

"I am all right,” I replied; "go on with the 
story.” 

"They are then oiled by the president of the 
church.” 

"Oiled 1” I exclaimed. "Why, what do you 
mean ?” 

"Their bodies are oiled,” she said, "with a 
blessed oil; only the Mormons can have such oil 
rubbed on their bodies at marriage.” 

"And what follows this ceremony?” 

"They then proceed to the dressing room and 
garb themselves. They are later pronounced man 
and wife.” 

She told me they had to pass through twelve 
rooms before the ceremony closed. 

Oh, it was frightful ! I cannot forget it. 

A couple to stand before a strange man, nude ! 
Oh, that was horrifying in the extreme, and it 
made me blush with shame. 

137 


Cfte Diarg of a Otaft <2*irl 

That such a thing existed I had no idea. 
Damn you, old Brigham Young, for putting such 
a law in force ! 

September 

I have made up my mind since yesterday that 
the place of Brigham Young is low, instead of 
high, but I shall not judge any one. 

But I do believe that Brigham Young must 
have been an awful man. He must not have had 
a soul at all. 

My dream of love is past, Brigham Young; I 
did admire you in the beginning of my book; in 
the closing pages I hate you! 

Salt Lake is filled with your work. You have 
made Salt Lake a beautiful city. 

The Temple is as fine a structure as the eye 
of a man would wish to gaze upon. It is grand, 
but the hands of the poor Mormons are the ones 
who have made it beautiful, and their tidings is 
the money that helped to build it, not the hard 
earnings of Brigham Young. I am going to 
write a poem on Brigham Young. It will be 
called “Brigham Young Lies Sleeping in a Grave - 
yard of His Own.” 

And you will know then that my genius is 
grand and great; and I love it; yes, I love it with 
all my devilish heart ! 

September 3. 

I said I love my genius. I do! Ardently, I 
love it. It is something one cannot buy with 

138 


C&e Diarp of a SJtai) <$iil 

gold. I think if I could sell it and paste up in 
my window the sign: “For sale — genius of a re- 
markable order,” there would be throngs come 
to bid. 

I am the only girl in Utah who has ever in- 
herited such a remarkable gift. I am happy with 
it, immensely happy. 

They say, if your heart leaps at the words of 
a man that you love him, and if his heart leaps 
at words of yours that he loves you equally as 
well. I believe it, though I am not a girl to go 
by other people’s foolish notions. 

I am myself. I go by my own dictions, and 
they lead me very well. 

If I say something and it does not meet the 
approval of every one in my presence I say to 
myself, “Never mind, little girl; the words you 
just spoke suited you, and you are the one to be 
suited.” 

Oh, I am a remarkable character. I know it! 
My heart overflows with joy when I think of it! 
September 5. 

I love to sit alone and dream! Does it sound 
foolish? Well, I love to lie alone and dream! 
That sounds better, does it not. I lie alone and 
dream. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! That is how I laugh 
when anything tickles me very much. Ha, ha, ha, 
ha! can be distinctly heard when I lie alone to 
dream. 

I wonder if the Mormons ever lie alone to 
dream. I know they do not, for they have no 
time to dream. 


139 


Cbc Dfarp of a Otaft <£Hrl 

September 6 . 

The Mormons will soon hold their conference 
here and what a big time we will have. I shall 
be at the Tabernacle. 

I never heard them preach more than once, and 
I think I shall go a second time. Do not call 
them Mormons before their faces, else you might 
regret it. You Eastern folks, bear in mind that 
they are saints in Utah, and the odd name for 
them is Mormons, but the devil knows it suits 
them best. Yes, it suits them best. 

This morning an agent called and asked to be 
let in 60 he could show me what he had. Well, I 
allowed him to step inside the door and gave 
him a chair. 

"I have a book here I would like to show you, 
madam, if you have no objections, and if I am 
not taking advantage of your busy hours/’ he 
said politely, looking at me very earnestly. 

“You are not keeping me from any special 
work,” I assured him, but he was. Due courtesy 
made me lie out of it, you know. 

He had a book with all sorts of new inventions 
in it and how tea and coffee is grown, etc. When 
he came to the page that treated on the growth of 
tea and coffee he warmly addressed me by saying, 
“Of course we do not want to know anything 
about these things, do we?” 

I straightened up, and said very indignantly, 
“I do, for I am not a Saint !” 

“Oh, are you not ?” he hastily said, his face red- 
dening a trifle. 


140 


Cfie SDtatg of a Otaft <£rtl 

“No, I am a born Gentile, and I do not ap- 
prove of your church at all.” 

“What is there about it you do not like?” he 
asked me. 

“Everything about it makes me feel as if I 
should rather die than be a Mormon.” 

“You are jesting,” he said, for I could not re- 
sist a smile. 

I only laughed and passed it off, and he con- 
tinued showing me the book. 

When we had come to the last part of it, he 
turned his face to me and said: “Wouldn’t you 
like one of these books to be delivered in Septem- 
ber?” 

“Oh,” said I, “I like the book very well, but 
feel that I could not afford two dollars and a half 
($2.50) so soon,” and he looked around my dainty 
little sitting room, sweet with the perfume of del- 
icate flowers and fresh air, with its soft, rich car- 
pet on the floor, the delicate paintings in the 
room, all seemed to tell him that this room was 
not that of a pauper, but that of a lady, a room 
arranged by delicate hands and delicate tastes. 

It was certainly a pretty little apartment, ar- 
ranged to suit me, for it is in this little room I am 
always seen sitting, reading or writing. 

“Well,” he said, “you surely can afford to pay 
that small amount by the fifteenth. But of course 
I would not urge you if I thought you would not 
be able to pay it. If you were a Mormon you 
would not find it hard to pay this small amount.” 

“Why would it make any difference with my 

141 


Cfce Diarp of a (Utafr <$irl 

financial standing?” I asked, thinking in my 
mind that he would give me a horrid answer. 

“Because, because, because — well, because — 
good ” 

He arose and left hurriedly. 

“The devil because you,” said I as I fastened 
the screen again. 

I wonder what he would have said had I lis- 
tened to him ! 

September 7. 

I meet with various experiences every day. I 
hate the old Mormons, anyway ! 

Last night I went past the “Amelia Palace.” 
It is a beautiful structure, and I admire it, be- 
cause it is so ancient looking. 

It looks like ten thousand ghosts are in it in 
the night time, but it does not belong to a Mor- 
mon now. It belongs to a wealthy and respectable 
woman of Utah, and she keeps it looking grand. 
She is not a Mormon, though, and she does not 
look it, either. Now this “Amelia Palace” was 
the home of Brigham’s youngest wife. Her name 
was Amelia Young, and thus the palace was called 
“Amelia” in her honor. But dear little Amelia 
sold out the grand palace anc| went East to live. 
She left the Mormons, bag and baggage. 

She was Brigham’s best beloved, I am sure, for 
she was youthful, and, maybe, pretty. She was 
lucky, anyway, for she was left twenty-one thou- 
sand dollars by her husband. 

I always was taught that saints were poor and 

142 


C i)c Dtatg of a Otaf) <£>itl 

that they practiced self-denial to a great extent, 
and that if they possessed wealth they generally 
gave to the poor. But if Brigttam Young is a 
saint, Fll never be a devil. If Brigham Young is 
a saint, I shall be an archangel. 

Old Brigham did not get a place with the hal- 
lowed dead in the cemeteries. Think of it! He 
was too sacred to put him in a cemetery. So he 
lies in a grave by himself. 

All you Easterners when you come West, take 
a look at Brigham’s grave before you go back 
again. And also take note of that statue of him 
on Main and Brigham streets and remember the 
little genius who wrote this diary once passed it 
and said, aloud, “Damn you, old Brigham 
Young!” 

September 8. 

Salt Lake is a nice place to live. I have made 
up my mind now that it certainly is. I was born 
on Main Street in a small cottage, and often I 
go down there and look at it and smile. There 
it was the little genius first saw the light of day. 

I can beat little Mary MacLane yelling, even 
if she has a lovely liver with a yellow bile on it. 
I wonder if I have a good liver. Maybe there is 
a green bile on it, instead of a yellow one. 

While Mary lov^s her liver, I do not bother 
mine. 

But it is my brain I adore so profoundly. I 
love my brain. With the brain I think. When 
I sleep it takes me into unknown regions. 

143 


Cfte Diarg of a Otaft ©irl 

September 9. 

I would be the husband slayer if I had a Mor- 
mon husband. 

September 12. 

I went to the Tabernacle the other day to hear 
what the good old saints had to say. 

A young man was sitting behind me and he put 
his foot up under my seat, and of all the scratch- 
ing my legs ever got in their young life, they 
got it then. I was ashamed to turn around and 
tell him to stop, for fear some one would see me 
and think me rude. Well, I couldn’t stand it 
much longer, so I turned around and gave him 
an awful look. 

But he began to do it faster and I couldn’t do 
anything to make him stop. 

He winked at me smilingly, and I guess he 
thought I’d give him the wink back, but how little 
he knew me. Even if I am the writer of a bad 
diary, I keep my beautiful melancholy eyes 
straight. 

When the ceremony was over I was the first 
one to make my exit, and promised myself never 
to be amongst the Mormons again as long as I 
lived. When I went home I examined my limb. 
It was actually red and sore, and I just had to 
leave the stocking off and lie down. That’s what 
I got for being curious, you know. 

September 14. 

A little girl ran into my room, saying, “You 

144 


Cfte Dtarg of a Otaf) ©itl 

can’t guess what I sawed, Hanorah. I sawed the 
sun sunk behind the hill.” 

“Did you like it, dear ?” I questioned. 

But the little tot had come and gone like a 
sunbeam. 

Every time I see a child I cannot help envying 
him his innocent sport. How sweet life looks to 
him ! A day to a child is as long as a year to us, 
poor devils. 

As I lie here to-day I am longing for a hug 
from a Mormon. Somehow I think they give a 
girl a good hug and that it is a remembrance for 
years. 

I can feel it now. How tight they must hold 
one ! Oh, I believe it must be Heaven to get such 
a strong hug. 

September 15. 

I own up to being a devil, and I have no need 
of denying it. I do not look like one, though; I 
look more like an angel, with my little, dark face, 
my very large eyes that speak so plainly of sor- 
row, my abundant dark hair that I wear so be- 
comingly drawn up from my high brow and coiled 
in my neck. 

But withal, I am not a pretty girl, not pretty, 
but interesting and good looking. I am intelli- 
gent looking and every one who takes one look at 
me will be sure to take another. 

Yes, they will take another look as sure as my 
name is Hanorah Coughlin. 

I know I have a nice, delicate face, but nothing 

x 45 


Cfje Dtarp of a Ota[) <2url 

to rave over, you know. There are people who 
read this diary who will have gall enough to say 
I haven’t a soul. But they -will be loony. My 
eyes show my soul, those wondrously beautiful, 
dreamy eyes of mine are my greatest gems. 

Mary MacLane, if you have such a good liver, 
I can beat you with my eyes. I think I have 
prettier eyes than you, Mary, and if you saw me 
you would think so, little girl. I know you would 
like me, little Mary, for we have the same soul 
and thoughts. But damn you, Mary MacLane; if 
you sought to steal my lover, I’d fix your fine 
liver. I’d tear it out with a pitchfork ! 

September 19. 

The fresh autumn breezes are fanning my soft 
cheek. My soft cheek, mind I said my soft cheek. 

And it seems so delightful to feel them caress 
my cheek, my soft one, and then toss a tress of 
my brown hair against my brow. 

September 21. 

Last night before I went to bed, I got Mary’s 
book and re-read it. 

September 23. 

This morning I was standing on the street cor- 
ner near a little child and his mother. 

The child’s attention was all taken up with a 
man who was crossing the street. 

“Why,” the little fellow said, “he has no 
horns !” 


146 


(•jSMSMfc-r 



“Why,” the little 


fellow said, “he has no horns] 


y y 


Diary of a Utah Girl.) — P„ 14$. 









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Cfte 2Diatg of a CJtaft <Sicl 

Some one in the crowd had remarked. “There 
goes a Mormon.” I heard the child’s remark, 
and a laugh, of course, was the only thing to pass 
it off. He had made up his mind that Mormons 
wore horns. 

The remark amused me and every one stand- 
ing around there. 

The man had passed out of hearing, else he 
would have felt his neck itching. 

September 30. 

The month of September is fast fading, and 
with it my ambition. I am going to be the devil’s 
bride ! I say I am, and I mean it. 

October 3. 

It looks very much like a storm to-day, but I 
hope it doesn’t, for if it does I cannot go uptown, 
and I have to go to get writing paper to finish 
my diary. I must not neglect that. I should be 
cruel to the reading world. 

When this little diary comes before the world 
they will say: “Hanorah Coughlin is an idiot!” 
Well, I guess all human beings are more or less 
idiots when they fall in love. But no one can 
be a greater idiot than one who falls in love with 
the reddest man in the world of eternity. 

So I admit I am an idiot. World, you need 
have no fear of me being insulted for calling me 
an idiot. 

Let the daily papers scorn me to their utmost. 
.They cannot down me. Let them call me names 

147 


Cfte Diarp of a 23tafi <S5frl 

until they are sick and tired. Let them taunt me 
until they can taunt no more and then they will 
shut up. 

The greatest thing that ever happened only 
lasted nine days. Every one who calls me an 
idiot I shall meet them at the gates of hell and 
jab a pitchfork into their tongues, and sav “Now. 
am I an idiot ?” 

Ha, ha ! my triumph ! 

Publishers will wonder if I am insane or if I 
am minus a portion of my brains. The devil a 
minus them. I have them all and I will keep 
them. I love my brains. 

When my diary comes out people will be watch- 
ing to get a look at me. 

All who want to get a look at me just adver- 
tise it in the papers, and I shall then stand up on 
the balcony of some large hotel and give every 
one a good look. Then you will see the case that 
holds the most remarkable brain of any living 
woman. 

I think my diary will make Mary MacLane go 
back and sit down, for she does not express her- 
self like I do. Her book is rather slow in parts, 
rather weary, while mine is truly brilliant. No 
one can deny this. It is a brilliant little story 
coming from the pen of a bright Utah girl, one 
who is talented, one who is gifted beyond the or- 
dinary run of mortals, but I love my gift. Look 
at “Strange Fates !” Why, that speaks of a soul 
pure and lofty. It is original besides, and is wor- 
thy of readers, and a good amount of praise. 

148 


Cfce Dtarp of a Gltab ©itl 

I bought myself some lead pencils and paper 
and sat down and wrote it. I didn’t stand, re- 
member that, for it would be very tiresome. 

I sat down nice and easy and wrote it, and it 
came to me as natural as the words in this diary 
came to my remarkable brain. 

The world will be astonished at me. I know it 
will. It will become almost crazed to think there 
lives in this age a woman, nay, a girl, a slight 
little American girl, who has two minds. I can 
picture the beautiful as well as the horrid with- 
out difficulty and get it as beautiful and touching 
as Adeline Anne Proctor used to get her poems 
on love and religion. 

Sometimes I sit down to play on the mandolin, 
and if I happen to strike a very melancholy piece 
the tears start to my eyes, slowly they course 
down my cheek, and then, like a mad woman, I 
rush away and hide the little instrument and 
come back to my typewriting. I am an accom- 
plished woman. Who would care to know more 
than I do? I write beautiful, sad verses, I write 
lovely, touching stories, I portray my own life 
beautifully, and I can play the mandolin grandly. 
I have a sweet, low, soprano voice, and when I 
sing I pour out the sorrows of my soul in words. 
Oh, my voice is sad ! 

It is divinely sweet and low. And when I sing 
I always look unusually sad for such a devil. 
Some day I shall be great in the world — yes, 
some day I shall know what true life means. Peo- 
ple who come in contact with me daily will say, 

149 


Ciie iDiarp of a Ota b <55i'rl 

“Why, that girl did not write that bad diary. 
She is as sweet and refined as any one could ever 
be. And her manner is so courteous !” 

And the world will acknowledge that even if I 
do love the devil, I am a woman of many attain- 
ments and the possessor of a remarkably sweet 
character. 

Mary and I are going to be good friends, for 
we both will undergo the same torture from the 
world. She is modest ; she is ! 

October 4. 

I have just been reading “Over the River.” 
Now, somehow I like that little poem, for it recalls 
to me that some day, over the river, the devils 
will beckon to me ! The devil, mind you, not the 
angels. People will say, “How I would dread to 
die if I were that Hanorah Coughlin !” 

Let such people keep their mouths out of my 
death. I’m not ready to die yet, so wait until 
the devils beckon their fingers; I shall then close 
my gloriously beautiful dark eyes, the dark lashes 
will lie upon my pale cheek, pale in the cold em- 
brace of death. 

October 5. 

To-day is wash day. That’s the only day in 
the week I do not like. I hate it, oh, so bad ! I 
never wash! Do you think I would spoil my 
lovely white hands that are so much admired? 
Good heavens, no ! Never will I destroy my lovely 

150 


€fie Dtarg of a SJtaft ©itl 

hands with washing. The Queen of England has 
not got prettier hands than I have. 

They are like pillows they are so soft and white, 
and the loveliest shape yon ever saw. As I have 
said in my diary before, they are the hands of a 
gifted woman, the most remarkable woman in 
the world, the possessor of a talent that no one 
possesses but her dear little self, and she’s dad ! 
glad! glad! 

October 6. 

Since the appearance of “Strange Fates” peo- 
ple look at me in a different light. They are 
jealous, you know, because they cannot be writers. 
Let them be jealous. I do not care for all their 
jealousy. 

Let the world laugh at me. It will have cause 
to weep also. I am usually reserved. 

Mary MacLane will prosper and make money 
on her books, for she has genius and that of an 
ordinary order. 

I do not envy you, Mary, for your money. Oh, 
no ! Oh, no ! Oh, no ! But I envy your genius, 
for it is worth possessing, even if it is of a pe- 
culiar order. 

My little diary will soon be finished, and as I 
sit alone to dream, I am wondering what effect 
it will have on the mind of the tailless humans. 

October 8. 

I suppose you are looking for that poem on 
“Brigham Lies Sleeping All Alone in a Grave- 

151 


Cfte Diatp of a ftltaf) <£>M 

yard?” Never mind that poem until you reach 
the last page of this diary, and then the apple of 
your eye will twinkle. 

October 9. 

To-day I was feeling melancholy, and so I went 
to the little table on which my typewriter rests, 
and wrote the following: 

In a cottage by the wayside 

Sits an old man bent with years. 

Down his features once so lovely 
Now are falling bitter tears. 

O'er his memory steals a vision 
Of his love he laid to rest , 

With her precious little infant 
Quietly sleeping on her breast. 

To this cottage once he brought her 
When she first became his bride ; 

There he told her that he loved her ; 

There his darling after died. 

Oft when in the quiet gloaming 
He had clasped her to his heart; 

Oft he told her that he loved her , 

And from her he would not part. 

But one day they heard a footstep. 

Breaking on the stillness there, 

And he knew it was death's angel. 

Coming for his darling Clare . 

152 


Cfte Diarp of a otaj) <5ftl 

But she told him not to worry , 

For he soon would join her , too; 

And he hissed the wee babe gently 
And his darling love so true. 

Once again he seemed to see her , 

Once again he seemed to hear. 

Dearest Edward , I must leave you 
And my darling baby dear!” 

Once again he seemed to see her 
Close her ' loving eyes and sleep; 

And he bowed his old head gently 
On the old armchair to weep. 

Dreaming alone in his cottage home. 

In the sunset of his years; 

Dreaming of one he loved so dear. 

His eyes overflowing with tears; 

Dreaming of one he laid to rest. 

With her baby on her breast; 

Dreaming alone in his cottage home. 

The old man sinks to rest. 

I wrote that little piece in a short time. Now 
if that isn’t genius, what does the world call true 
genius? I entitled it “Looking Backward.” And 
it got its right name, too. 

October 10. 

People who read my diary will open wide their 
eyes and wonder where I ever got the remarkable 
genius I really possess. But, never mind, I have 
it, and that will settle the question. 

153 


Cf )t Dtarg of a CttaJ) ©id 

People will envy me, I know. Let them envy 
me; they cannot take the remarkable gift I own 
away from me, so I shall keep it and make good 
use of it. 

Think of all the years ahead of me. How 
many weary hours will I spend over the type- 
writer trying to amuse the reading public ? Aye, 
how many? How many times will my heart be 
pierced with cruel words spoken by worldly peo- 
ple ? How many times will my heart rise up in 
rebellion against others 5 sayings ? How many 
times will I be driven to saying “Damn the peo- 
ple, anyway !” Let the years come and go, let 
them wrinkle my fair young brow ; let them bring 
silvery threads among the brown! Oh, world, 
taunt me all you wish; you cannot deprive me of 
a great career. I shall have it, in spite of all. 
And in eternity I shall triumph ! 

October 12. 

I wish the snow would fall ! I cannot bear to 
see the sun shining while I am so melancholy! 

® ur b g° down !” I have screamed since early 
morning, but it seems to shine only the brighter. 
Oh, I wish it would hide itself behind a cloud. 

My soul is dark. It seems to me I cannot see 
a light illuminating my future! Why was I 
ever born? The gentle winds seem to whisner 
“To fight for fame !” F ' 

Some day I shall be famous ! Will I be hannv 
then ? 

My mother often says to me laughingly, “My 

154 


€f)e Dtarg of a ataft &itl 

dear, if you were rich or famous you would yearn 
for something else. Your soul would never cease 
to yearn.” True enough, mother, but— but if I 
had fame, I would be truly happy. Is not fame 
and wealth everything we have to live for? It 
is; I say it is! Love is not everything. Girls 
may crave for love, but give to the little Utah 
genius fame, fame and glory! 

Married life can only bring woe nowadays ; 
yes, woe and the divorce court. Give to me fame ! 
Oh, world, can’t you hear me calling for fame? 
Can’t you hear? Oh, world, give me fame for 
an hour ; I shall then be content to die ! 

October 14. 

# How I wish I were a good artist ! I would 
give this world some glowing pictures of my soul. 
I would also picture my sad little heart! A 
heart perfectly drawn, and of a lovely clean color, 
but natural. I would like to see my heart painted 
quite natural. It would have blood trickling 
down a wound where it had been pierced with a 
stiletto, for the world to wonder at, not like sa- 
cred hearts of holy people, but real and lifelike. 

Then my soul would be far more sorrowful. It 
would be partly blue and partly white. The blue 
part would indicate where my soul was soiled ac- 
cording to the world’s way of soiling a soul, while 
the other part would be white and spotless be- 
cause I think it is saved, according to my theory. 

If one has to go to hell that is no reason we 

155 


C&e Dfatg of a ataft <&tri 


are lost. Get to be intimate with the dear little 
Satan man and you will be happy. 

October 17. 


Patiently I am sitting waiting for the coming 
of one I dearly love. Will he come? I have not 
the least doubt but what he will. Of course he 
will come. I hear something knocking! What is 
it ?" It is at my window ! I must look ! 

“Well, dearest, are you out there?” I ask my 
little Satan man, for it is he who is at the win- 
dow, smiling one of his sweetest smiles to me. 

‘I shall be in in a moment, dear heart.” 

In a minute the form of my lover rose up in 
the room. r 


Call me a fool and tell me I am a liar, but Pve 
got the best brains of any living person excepting 
Marconi and Edison, two of the world’s greatest 
inventors ; and also the inventors of airships. 

I have the best brains outside of those great 

1 d ° £°-n d .l ny , they have a better ^ad 
than I have. Still the best thing ever done in 

the world was excelled by some one else, so I am 
not afraid to tell the opinion my little heart gives 
me. I know, too, that another girl will come for- 
wa , rd ., W1 ^ a bo °k ten times worse than this one 
and thus prove more notorious than myself. But 

!fpr C nt r C °T me 1 1 ?? always S lad to see a sma rt 

person. I only wish there were more intelligent 
persons among the many ignorant folks we meet 
nowadays. How much better this world would 


156 





Patiently I am sitting, waiting for the coming of one I dearly 
love. Will he come? 


(Diary of a Utah Girl.)— P. 156. 



Cfte Diarp of a ataf) <2ttrl 

seem ! No one would be ignorant and we would be 
able to agree on every subject. 

October 18. 

I have now given to the world my little life 
story. What will be done with it? Will people, 
curious and ignorant, buy it and cast it aside? 
Will they fiercely upbraid me? Damn them if they 
will. Old world, I can live on amid all your 
criticisms. 

Old editor of the Pittman Herald , Fll roast 
you in eternity ! For every word you wrote about 
my little book, not excellent by any means, but 
the best I could write at the age of eighteen, I 
shall strike you with coals of fire. Only then 
will you know me ; only then you will see me, and 
damn you for your criticisms! Fll make you 
leap like a frog. Remember me and my little 
book you called "awful !” Damn you and your 
awfuls ! 

Damn everything, even myself, all but my own 
relations. 

Damn the old newspapers who do more harm 
than good! Damn the ignorant, who know not 
what they say! 

Damn the educated who know too much ! 

Damn every living fool! 

Listen while I hum a sweet refrain. 

Brigham lies sleeping in a graveyard of his own , 
Brigham lies sleeping all alone, all alone, 

157 


Cfte Diarp of a Otaft <$trl 

With no women to surround him or to give him 
a caress; 

Brigham lies sleeping . Do the women love him 
less f 

Brigham lies sleeping in a graveyard all alone, 
Brigham lies sleeping underneath a giant stone ; 
Brigham has passed to the land of the blest, 
Which of the women loved him best , loved him. 
best? 

I wrote the poem, but did not write it as I said 
I would. I like to write about old Brig, but be- 
fore I close my pages, I must tell you all that my 
love for the devil is as ardent as ever, will be to 
the close of my life. My, when I am growing old, 
won’t I write a good story about myself again ! 

I want fame and glory. World, you must give 
me a place in the hall of fame. I want a place 
in that great hall, but the devil knows I don’t 
want it if my good brains should get dashed out 
by the Butte genius! No, even fame at such 
would be the price. 

The world will go mad over my little diary, I 
know. Every one will say when they read it to 
themselves, “Delighted !” 

The devil delights them then, for they wouldn’t 
say it before any one, lest the person to whom 
they said it remarked the vile side of their char- 
acter. Well, I am ready to say just what I think 
before anybody and everybody. What my mind 
thinks my lips speak. 

158 


C&e Dlarp of a fatal) <2>irl 

Some time, as I said, later on in life, I am go- 
ing to write another story — Diary No. 2. It will 
prove still more interesting, because the older the 
head the wiser the brain. 

Now, world, judge my diary as you will. Bar 
me out of all places of respectability, announce 
to the people that I am an idiot, but give me the 
fame of an idiot! It will be satisfactory if no 
better fame can come to me ; it will be better than 
no fame at all. 

The world adjudged Mary MacLane an idiot. 
But it did not hurt her brain any ? Not at all. It 
only seemed to enrich it and lend her more cour- 
age, for she promptly replied with another vol- 
ume, much to my delight, even if I do envy her. 

The end of my diary is nigh, but remember, 
world, whatever I may be, I am not a fool. I 
am not a fool. I am not a fool. He who calls me 
a fool is a greater one himself, but I know the 
men folks will not call me a fool. It’s the gos- 
sipers of the twentieth century. Men have sense, 
women have none. I am an extraordinary woman. 
I have sense as much as any man. I have a 
strong will, a will that never fails me. I am an 
educated devil, a wonderful genius. What more, 
world, do you want me to be? Why, then, shall 
I be barred from taking my seat in the firma- 
ment of literature? 

Shall I be barred? 

I do not want a stone put in my hand. 

END. 


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